


Wander Home

by gingerswag



Series: Wander Home [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abused Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Autistic Castiel (Supernatural), Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lonely Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Middle Ages, Prostitution, Slavery, Sort Of, Taverns, this is not historically accurate i got this idea playing skyrim so don't judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerswag/pseuds/gingerswag
Summary: The boy is cold, that much is clear. He’s shivering, thin as a switch and trembling like a leaf in a storm, even though the door of the tavern slammed shut behind him more than a few minutes ago. That the warmth of the inn still hasn’t seeped into him speaks to how long he must have been outside, freezing down to his bones.Cas feels cold just looking at him, and he wants to tell the boy to go sit by the fire, to warm himself up. He doesn’t think his offer would be welcome, however, as the boy seems to be doing everything in his power to avoid Cas’s attention. Hiding in the shadows, the boy makes himself as small as possible, only rarely daring to glance furtively over to the counter that Cas stands behind. He seems to be checking to see if Cas has noticed him, and seems relieved as Cas pretends that he hasn’t.****Cas is an overworked teenager who just lost his father, and is trying to run the tavern that's been left to him on his own. Dean knows nothing but mistreatment, and will do anything for a full stomach and a warm place to sleep.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Wander Home [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147427
Comments: 729
Kudos: 559
Collections: Destiel ✦ The Road To Freedom





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh. I don't really know what this is. I was playing Skyrim and was like I Want To Live In These Taverns. Then I projected. Some of you may recognize some similar themes from my other fic, Keeping You in Sight. I'm a one trick pony, sorry.

The boy is cold, that much is clear. He’s shivering, thin as a switch and trembling like a leaf in a storm, even though the door of the tavern slammed shut behind him more than a few minutes ago. That the warmth of the inn still hasn’t seeped into him speaks to how long he must have been outside, freezing down to his bones.

Cas feels cold just looking at him, and he wants to tell the boy to go sit by the fire, to warm himself up. He doesn’t think his offer would be welcome, however, as the boy seems to be doing everything in his power to avoid Cas’s attention. Hiding in the shadows, the boy makes himself as small as possible, only rarely daring to glance furtively over to the counter that Cas stands behind. He seems to be checking to see if Cas has noticed him, and seems relieved as Cas pretends that he hasn’t.

Cas can’t blame him for wanting to stay hidden. It’s obvious what he is. His rags are filthy, and uncomfortably revealing. They would do nothing to protect him from the storm raging outside, and do nothing to protect him from the leering eyes of men. He’s young, probably no more than fourteen, but is battered in a way that speaks to a life of mistreatment. Bruises old and new bloom across the large swaths of skin his clothes leave uncovered, layering themselves painfully in a canvas of yellows and blues.

He’s a whore, probably a runaway. It’s obvious he has no money. There’s no way he’d be able to pay for a room for the night, or even a cup of warm ale which would justify a place by the fire for few hours. Instead, he’s hiding in the drafty corners of the tavern, trying to spend as long as possible inside the inn before he’s spotted and thrown out.

Cas feels torn about what to do.

His father would have thrown the boy out already. His father wouldn’t have let the boy even step through the door. They’ve never been able to afford charity, especially not in the wintertime, when food is scarce even for paying customers. His father would not be ignoring the boy, would not be pretending not to see him offering himself to customers, being rejected over and over.

But Cas is not his father, and his father isn’t here. His father is dead, has been for four months now. Illness had nearly taken the both of them, but it had released Cas from it’s grasp at the last second. It had not extended the same courtesy to his father, and now Cas has been left alone. Left alone to run the inn, to manage the customers, to ignore or not ignore whores who can’t pay for their stay.

He’s exhausted. There is always so much work to be done, and so little pay to be received. It was nearly overwhelming when his father was alive. Now that he’s gone, Cas doesn’t know how much longer he can manage on his own.

But there is nothing else to do. His father had left the business to him when he died. Cas had been just barely sixteen, thank god, or the government would have seized the business and Cas would have been left with nothing. Too old for the orphanage and too small for the workhouse, he would have been left to fend for himself on the street, not unlike the boy Cas cannot bring himself to send away.

Cas lifts his eyes to watch him.

His heart aches as the boy scuttles away from yet another disgruntled man. He doesn’t seem to be having much luck tempting customers to his trade.

It isn’t really a surprise. The boy’s face is lovely, but he’s filthy and beaten half to death, and skinny as a skeleton besides. He looks miserable, and can’t seem to dredge up even a brittle smile to disguise his desperation.

Cas can’t stand to look at him suddenly, and turns away, busying himself by cleaning bowls and glasses. 

He knows he should send him away. This isn’t a brothel, and the boy’s doing more than making himself scarce now, is in fact bothering those who have paid to eat in peace. He can’t afford to lose customers because of the boy, and can’t afford the fines he could be slapped with if someone reports him for harboring a runaway. Business is slow enough as it is. The boy could cause real trouble for him. He needs to tell him to go.

He doesn’t.

Instead he keeps his back turned like a coward, rinsing dishes in the barrel of water he keeps behind the counter for this reason. He’ll give them a real clean later in the kitchen sink, after the dining area clears out and he can be reasonably sure they’ll be no more travelers wandering in looking for lodging for the night.

The thought of the hours of work that lay ahead of threatens to overwhelm his tired mind, and he pushes the knowledge aside, trying not to think about it. He’s been up since four, collecting the eggs from the chickens and plants from the garden, cooking the meals he’d serve the customers, checking people in and out and keeping the fire tended to. 

He wants to collapse and go to sleep. He wants a day off, just one, or just an hour, an hour to rest. 

He wants his father back.

He wants _help._

He’s not going to receive any of that, though, not as long as he can’t afford to hire someone, which he can’t see ever happening. There’s never enough money. Never enough money. God, why is there never enough money?

 _Stop it,_ Cas thinks to himself, shaking his head. _At least you have food. At least you have a warm place to sleep._

That’s more than some can say.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Cas hears a quiet cough behind him, timid and shy.

Cas knows it’s the boy before he turns around, can recognize the nervousness that seeps out of his voice as the same nervousness that had seeped out of his body. Somehow he’s still surprised, though, to see him standing there in front of him.

He’d thought the boy would hide as long as possible. Why he is here, forcing Cas to confront his uncertainty about what to do about him earlier than expected, Cas doesn’t know.

“Oh,” Cas says awkwardly. “Um. Hello.”

The boy doesn’t answer. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

He looks even worse close up. He has a black eye, and his lip has been split. A large yellow bruise is fading along his jaw, and his nose is slightly crooked, like it had been broken and never healed quite right.

His skimpy tunic hangs off him like a dead thing. One of his sleeves has fallen down, but the boy makes no move to fix it.

He looks so hungry. Cas’s stomach clenches in sympathy.

_Goddamnit._

For the most part, Cas likes his work, or at least he had before his father died and his workload had doubled. For the most part, his work has involved serving travelers, people who come to stay for a night and quickly move on, who he never has to see again. Cas likes it like that. He likes his little inn, off the long lonely road, far from the bustle of the city.

Cas doesn’t like the city, with it’s crowds and crooks and cruelty. He doesn’t like…people. He doesn’t like what people do to each other.

He doesn’t like looking at this boy, with the evidence of what people have done to him carved into every facet of his being. It makes his heart hurt. It makes him want to help, without having the resources to do so.

 _This is why I stay at the inn,_ he thinks. His father had always worried about him, would catch him talking to the chickens or the cow and look at him like he was mad. He’d try to convince Cas to make friends with the patrons, to come into the city with him when he went.

Cas always avoided doing so as much as possible, content with the garden and the animals. 

_I don’t like people,_ Cas thinks, looking at the whore’s battered face. _I don’t like people at all._

“Can I…help you?” Cas asks, after a long moment of silence. He knows he means the words more sincerely than he should.

The boy sort of flinches, like he is surprised to be addressed despite being right in front of Cas. His eyes flicker up for a moment, and Cas thinks he is going to speak. Instead, the boy thrusts his hand out suddenly, palm open, offering Cas what is clearly all the coin he has.

His lips are shiny and swollen, and Cas realized someone must have taken what the boy had been offering during the time that his back had been turned.

“Oh,” Cas says again, stomach churning guiltily.

“Is it…” the boy starts, voice rough and quiet. “Is it enough?”

Cas glances down at the open palm in front of him.

“For…what?” He asks.

“Food?” The boy says hopefully. “Or. Or. Anything?”

Cas bites his lip.

The amount of coin the boy is offering is pitiful, not enough to buy even an apple at the market, much less a hearty bowl of the stew he has bubbling back in the kitchen.

It’s such a tiny amount of coin that Cas is shocked anyone would offer any kind of sexual service for so little, even someone as desperate as this boy clearly is.

Unsure what to say, he takes in the boy’s uncertain expression, and it occurs to him that the boy may not know how much the coins he’s been given are worth.

They idea of someone taking advantage of someone already in such a wretched situation is so upsetting that Cas has taken the coins from the boy before he knows what he’s doing.

“Go sit down by the fire,” Cas tells the boy. “I’ll bring you a bowl of stew.”

Relief spills across the boy’s face like ink, so clear and palpable that Cas feels the echo of the emotion in his own heart.

“Thank you,” the boy says. “Thank you, sir.”

The words are quiet, and so earnest that they chase away the voice of his father in his head, calling him soft.

 _So what if I am,_ Cas thinks defiantly as he heads back into the kitchen. _I can afford to give away one bowl of stew, at least more than that boy can afford to miss another meal._

One unpaid for bowl of stew won’t tip his finances over into starvation.

It _wont._

It won’t, but it might ease some of the pressure that has been gathering in his chest since the boy stepped through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still invested in the verse I established in Keeping You in Sight, and I have a bunch of half written timestamps which I do intend to publish. I just....feel like I set the bar so high for myself with Keeping You in Sight and I just wanted to write without having any plans to connect it to a manifesto on dependence/freedom/whateverthefuck Keeping You in Sight ended up being about. I hope y'all enjoyed this and I plan to continue, but any of y'all who read Keeping You in Sight should be warned that this is Not Going To Be As Good. I refuse to put as much effort into this as I did that, this is purely self indulgent hurt/comfort. So yeah. Sorry to any who wanted more in the Keeping You in Sight verse, I do intend to write more of that, but I kind of need to get my writing sea legs back with this piece that I am less invested in, if that makes sense? IDK.
> 
> Anyway, please leave a comment if you enjoyed. Since I am not putting nearly as much thought into this as I did Keeping You in Sight, I'd love to hear any suggestions/comments about what you'd like to see in this fic :) Also come bother me about any of my writing or anything else at my tumblr blog, https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDK man I'm having fun. This whole "not giving a shit if it's good" thing is working well I think.

It wasn’t enough money. Dean could tell from the expression on the other boy’s face. He had looked down at what Dean had offered him not with derision but with bafflement, like he couldn’t even comprehend why Dean would be trying to buy with so little.

Shame had risen in him immediately, and it had only been desperation that had kept Dean from running off before he’d even heard the boy’s answer.

He wouldn’t have tried to buy, if he had known, wouldn’t have risked drawing attention to himself if he had realized how little value the coins he offered held.

But he hadn’t known. He’d never been allowed to handle money, never had a reason to learn how to use it. All the coin people had paid for the use of him had gone directly into the pocket of his keeper. He’d never known how much he was worth, since he wouldn’t see a cent of that worth anyway.

He’d been ready for rejection, and had cursed himself for risking being seen in the hope of a meal. It was so cold outside, and so warm in the inn. He’d do anything to stay for just a few minutes more.

_I should have collected more coin before coming over here._

He should have known that sucking off one man in the dusty corner wouldn’t be enough to get him fed. Should have known the man wouldn’t give him more than scraps.

He’d braced himself to be thrown back into the cold, had already been wondering if he should risk trying to steal some of the horse’s oats from the stables before moving on.

But then. The boy’s expression had changed. And he takes the money from the palm of Dean’s hand.

“Go sit down by the fire,” he tells Dean. “I’ll bring you a bowl of stew.”

Relief hits him like a slap.

“Thank you.” The words tumble out of his mouth, thoughtlessly, gratefully. “Thank you, sir.”

The fire is warm where Dean collapses in front of it. A woman seated next to him gives him a dirty look, and walks away. Dean pays her no mind. He’s used to being something revolting, and has no energy to spare for embarrassment, at least not now, as the heat from the fire seems to suck out the miserable adrenalin that had kept him standing up till now.

He’d been so cold outside, had been cold even after coming inside, had longed so deeply to come over here and warm himself. But he’d been scared of being caught in the fire’s light, been scared of the people eating and drinking nearby. He’d been scared of being seen, not wanting to be sent back into the storm.

It’s nice to be allowed to sit here now, though he doesn’t know why he’s been permitted.

_It wasn’t enough money,_ Dean thinks vaguely, watching the flames dance. His eyelids feel heavy. _It wasn’t enough._

The thought nags at him, and he knows he should be paying it more mind. He doesn’t know why the boy behind the counter didn’t throw him out.

But he’s too tired to question it too deeply. Perhaps Dean had misunderstood, or perhaps he’d take Dean’s body as payment instead. That’s fine. That’s fine, as long as he can avoid the cold for a few minutes more.

The fire crackles, and a piece of bark breaks off the log and falls down to the ashes. Dean watches as a flurry of sparks fly up in its wake.

It’s so warm. He’s so warm. He’s so warm, and soon there would be food. The boy had said so. He’d said so, hadn’t he? He said there would be stew. _Stew,_ and maybe it would be warm as well. That would be nice, Dean thinks. He’d let the boy do anything to him if he let him have some stew.

He can’t remember the last time he’d eaten something warm. He’s not sure he ever has.

He’s so hungry. He’d tried to steal some turnips out of the trash behind a lady’s cabin yesterday morning, but she had caught him and shouted, and he’d run off, frightened. He’d passed other houses since then, though they had been few and far between, but he’d been too afraid to try to find food again. He didn’t want anyone to see him, and shout at him again. He didn’t want them to hurt him.

When the boy brings the food, Dean is too out of it to even think to thank him. The boy holds the bowl out to him, but Dean just stares, disconnected and uncertain, until the boy makes a concerned noise and placed the bowl directly into his hands.

The bowl is _warm,_ which means the food is warm, and it’s so wonderful that Dean pushes the bowl against his chest just to feel the heat bleed through his clothes and into his muscles. It feels nice on his bruises.

Then the smell of the food hits him, and Dean forgets about everything but his ravenous hunger. He barely has the presence of mind to grab the spoon to shovel the food into his mouth, probably wouldn’t have even grabbed it if not for the fact that his hands wouldn’t be as effective as the utensil at scooping the food up.

It’s the best thing he’s ever eaten, and he was right, he was _right,_ it’s _warm,_ and as he swallows he feels the heat being stored inside him like treasure.

He’s halfway through the bowl before he even starts to register what he’s eating, but when he does he almost cries from how good it tastes. It’s thick and savory and the flavor bursts across his tongue like colors on a canvas. And it’s full of vegetables and potatoes and _meat,_ heavy pieces of meat that will keep him full for days, and none of it tastes stale or rotten at _all._

He can’t believe he’s being allowed to eat something so good, so filling. John had never fed him anything like this, no matter how good he’d been. The closest memory he can dredge up is those instances when Sam had managed to sneak him the leftovers of whatever they or their customers had been eating, well cooked chunks of chicken and roots that Dean could only imagine eating a full meal of. Still, even that hadn’t been as delicious as what he’s eating now, and it certainly hadn’t been warm.

By the time he’s finished, his stomach feels full enough to burst, but he picks up any remaining dredges with his fingers and tongue anyway. He’s never felt so full, and his stomach feels like a block of led dragging him down into the waters of sleep.

He’s so tired, and the fire is so warm, and his stomach doesn’t ache from emptiness anymore. The bustle of the inn has faded to a content blur in the background, and Dean feels more comfortable than he can remember being in a very, very long time.

It’s not going to last. He doesn’t have the money to be allowed to stay.

Distantly, he thinks that he shouldn’t have eaten so fast, should have eaten as slow as possible to justify staying in front of the fire for as long as he could.

_Stupid,_ he thinks, but that’s what he is. Stupid, just a stupid whore, and he can’t even find the energy to be angry at himself. He’s so tired. His bruises hurt, but they hurt less in front of the fire. He likes sitting here. He likes it.

He puts his head down on his knees.

_Don’t fall asleep,_ he tells himself. It’s not allowed. It’s not allowed, and he hadn’t paid for his meal, he knows it wasn’t enough money, so the boy will be coming to collect by way of Dean’s body any minute now. Any minute now.

_I hope he fucks me,_ Dean thinks. Fucking takes longer. The longer the boy takes with him, the longer he’ll be able to stay inside, out of the cold. He’ll make it good, so the boy wants to take as long as possible with him. Then he can stay warm for longer.

The fire is warm.

_Don’t fall asleep,_ he tells himself, but the empty bowl slips out of his hands and clatters onto the floor, and his eyes fall heavily shut. Unconsciousness finds him willing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your encouragement :) Pls leave a comment if you enjoyed or have any ideas about what should happen later on. As always, you can also come chat with me at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com :)


	3. Chapter 3

When Cas comes back around, hours later, the boy is still asleep.

He looks tiny, curled up on himself on the bench, limp and vulnerable. The bowl and spoon have fallen to the floor, are scattered in a way that tell Cas they had not been placed on the ground but had slipped from the boy’s grasp as he was overcome suddenly by exhaustion.

He picks the items up. The bowl has been completely cleaned of even the slightest trace of food.

He hopes the boy hadn’t still been hungry.

The boy lets out a sigh, a gentle sound of contentment that seems discordant with the starved and injured state he’s in. Cas tightens his grip on the bowl and spoon as he takes in the sight, still torn about what to do.

He’s already lost at least one customer to the boy’s presence, a disgruntled lady who had muttered something about how she’d thought this had been a respectable establishment before huffing herself out the door. Cas can’t say he’s sorry to see her go, but he is sorry to see her money go. She’d almost certainly been planning on taking a room for the night, but now seems to be headed back into town instead.

She’s not the only one who seems unhappy with the boy’s presence. Some of the men the boy had approached still seem irritated, though none enough to leave quite yet. They could, however, if the boy wakes again and starts trying to ply his trade once more.

Beside this, a mother has gathered her children closer to her, and moved them farther from the fire, eyeing the boy distrustfully. 

Some small part of him feels shame besides just worry, though he knows it’s not the boy’s fault he’s a whore. But he doesn’t want this to be the kind of establishment mothers don’t feel comfortable taking their children into, doesn’t want this to be the kind of establishment where you might find teenagers sucking men off in the corner of the room.

He can’t afford that kind of reputation. He can’t afford for families and travelers not to trust his hospitality.

 _He’s not your responsibility,_ he thinks, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like his father’s. _You have to look after yourself._

He does, and doesn’t he know it. The thought of the pile of dishes that waits for him in the kitchen makes him feel as tired as the whore looks.

Cas looks at the small, crumpled form of the boy in front of him, then looks up at the room. He makes eye contact with the young mother across the room. She doesn’t look disgusted, or angry, but she looks nervous, like she isn’t sure if she can let her children wander freely here. Cas knows it’s unlikely that she’d missed the boy going to his knees in the corner hours before.

Cas steels his tired heart, and crouches in front of the boy. Holding the bowl and spoon with one hand, he reaches out to take the boy’s shoulder with his other. He shakes the boy gently.

“Boy,” he says quietly. “Boy, wake up.”

The words feel awkward in his mouth, but he’s unsure what else to call him. It would be cruel to call him whore.

Cas has to shake him a few more times before the boy’s eyes blink awake slowly.

He looks straight at Cas for the first time, face open and confused, like he isn’t sure where he is, and isn’t quite awake.

His eyes are startlingly green, and large. His lashes are long, and dark, and Cas is reminded oddly of the calf his milk cow had given birth to not long ago. Eyes pretty, intense, and defenseless.

The boy blinks at Cas slowly, and Cas feels caught by his gaze. He feels heat rising on the back of his neck, and tears his gaze away from the boy’s face suddenly. The fire must be very hot behind him.

“Um,” Cas says uncomfortably. “You fell asleep.”

The boy doesn’t answer for a moment. Then he says, “Oh.” Slowly, like his mouth is thinking about it as it forms the word.

Cas doesn’t respond, still unable to tell the boy to leave.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says quietly.

“You needed your rest,” Cas says in response. His eyes are still down, avoiding the boy’s stare.

 _He’s barefoot,_ Cas notices for the first time.

It’s snowing outside.

It’s snowing outside, and the boy doesn’t have shoes.

“Do you want me?” The boy says then.

Cas’s brow furrows, and he glances back up.

“What?”

The boy is staring at the floor now, anxious. His hands are fidgeting nervously with the hem of his short tunic.

“For the food. And letting me sleep. I have no more money. But you can touch me, if you want. You can…do what you want. With me.”

It takes Cas a moment to understand what the boy is saying. When he does, his stomach drops in a low swoop.

 _Nerves,_ Cas tells himself, and ignores the beginnings of _something_ happening lower down, which doesn’t find the boy’s low voiced offer as unappealing as it should.

His heart picks up it’s pace.

Cas jerks his hand back from the boy’s shoulder like he’s been burned.

The boy flinches at the sudden movement, but Cas feels too off balance to feel guilty.

“Um. No. No thank you. That’s not. I’m not.” He’s leaning away from the boy now. The heat from the back of his neck has bled onto his face, and he can no longer pretend it’s because of the fire.

“You’re very lovely. But no thank you. That’s not what. That’s not what I want.”

 _I have no idea what I want,_ Cas thinks.

What he really wants, maybe, is not for the boy to go but for him not to have appeared at all, for him not to have come and brought moral qualms and odd temptations into Cas’s quiet life.

But no. No. He looks back at the boy’s lashes, clumped together and damp like his hair from where the snow that had fallen on them had melted.

No. He’s glad the boy came in, was able to eat a good meal and find some rest. It’s not his fault Cas doesn’t know what to do.

“Oh,” the boy says again. The word sound smaller this time, sharper. Cas misses the trusting lull that sleep had given his voice.

“I’m sorry,” the boy repeats. “I’ll go then. Thank you. I’ll go.”

And there it is, then, the words Cas hasn’t been able to bring himself to say. The boy has overridden Cas’s cowardice, has solved his problem for him.

All he has to do now is agree, to say “Yes,” or “That would be best,” or even just to nod and let the boy see himself out.

He doesn’t do any of those things.

“You don’t have to go,” is what slips out of his mouth.

The boy freezes.

“I- What?” He says.

They both know what he said, though.

Cas swallows, and waits for the regret to hit him.

It doesn’t.

_It’s snowing. He has no shoes._

_Just until the storm passes. It will only be a night. Just until I can be sure I’m not sending him out to his death._

“There are dishes that need to be washed. They’ll take me a long time, without help.”

He lets the words hang in the air for the boy to grasp, but he doesn’t seem to understand what Cas is saying.

Cas has never been good with words, but, still crouched in front of the boy, he tries again.

“If you want to pay me back, I don’t. I don’t need. Your trade. I could use help with the dishes though.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“And, well. There will be more dishes in the morning, if you want to stay the night. I can’t give you a room. But there is a rug by the fireplace in the kitchen, and I could bring down a blanket. It’s warm through the night, and the storm will break by dawn. If you are willing to stay and help me serve breakfast, I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay the night.”

He’s risking a lot, offering such a thing. They both know it. Cas doesn’t know this boy, knows nothing about his character, or what he would do to help himself. All he knows about this boy is that he is desperate. Allowing him to the back room, where he keeps the money, all his things, his food….he could wake up to find that the boy has robbed him blind.

He can’t afford to be robbed blind. He can barely afford to give away a bowl of soup.

His father would call him worse than soft, for being this trusting. This is well into the field of stupidity.

How can he look at this boy’s broken body and still trust that people won’t take advantage of him if he lets them?

But then, how can he look at this boy’s broken body and turn him away?

_If he steals from you, you could starve,_ Cas thinks. 

But the boy doesn’t look like he’s thinking about stealing. He looks heartbreakingly hopeful, and desperately thankful. They both know he could freeze if Cas sends him out into the storm. They both know Cas is offering him a lifeline right now.

“Is this…amenable, to you?” Cas asks, knowing the answer.

The boy nods frantically.

“Yes. Yes, please, sir, thank you, yes. I’ll work. Yes please. Yes please. I’ll work.”

“Alright. I’ll go fetch a good fur for you now, then, and we can get started on that cursed pile of dishes.”

He stands up at last, and waits for the dread of a bad decision made to form in his stomach. It doesn’t. Instead, something seems to settle in him as he hears the wind howl, knowing the boy won’t tonight be swept away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the feedback and encouragement!! :DD Happy new year! As always, you can also come chat with me at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com :)


	4. Chapter 4

They work together quietly, efficiently, as the sunlight fades from the sky.

The boy is a hard worker, Cas discovers. He watches him, silently, observing out of some morbid curiosity. The boy doesn’t notice, or maybe he does, but pretends not to, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes glued to the dishes between his hands as if they are the only thing he sees.

Cas sees his skinny arms straining with the effort of putting strength into his washing, scrubbing as hard as he can at the dried up gunk stuck to the pots and pans.

For all his effort, it still takes him at least twice as long as it takes Cas to wipe anything clean, muscles weak from malnutrition and neglect.

Cas doesn’t fault him for it, and doesn’t say anything. He’s pleased to see that the boy is thorough in his work, and doesn’t leave the dishes greasy or crusted in an effort to move through the pile faster. Cas would prefer him to clean the dishes slowly than to have to redo them after the boy is asleep.

It’s silent as they work, because Cas doesn’t know how to speak to people and the boy is clearly afraid of him. It makes Cas feel bad, but he’s never been able to hold a conversation with anyone, and certainly doesn’t know how to start one with this slip of a boy who would clearly rather sink into the floor than be addressed.

 _I need to find out his name,_ Cas thinks, not for the first time. He can’t just keep calling him boy. But, just as has happened the last three times he’s had the thought, his intention gets lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and he finds himself awkwardly staring at the boy as if he can draw the knowledge from one mind to the other.

His staring does not go unnoticed. The boy seems to curl in on himself as Cas gazes at him, but does not raise his own eyes. He freezes briefly, before continuing suddenly with his work with an increased sense of urgency.

 _Fuck,_ Cas thinks, tearing his own eyes away. _Now I’ve gone and scared him._

Frustration and guilt mingle within his chest like honey and wine. 

It hurts, in his heart and in his eyes.

_Why do I have to be so strange?_

He doesn’t want to scare this boy. He wants to put him at ease.

But he’s never had the easy mannerisms that come so naturally to others, has never been able to crack open people like boxes the way he always watched his father do.

He doesn’t know how to make people comfortable in his presence. He always seems to alarm them.

It doesn’t matter, generally, when he’s running the inn. He can stay silent and serve people their food and liquor, and avoid disquieting them by keeping his mouth shut and his presence minimal. Sure, they never spend like they did when his father was around, happy to shell out for more ale and rum while bantering jovially in the conversations his father created. But that’s alright. That’s alright. Cas can still make customers happy, by making good stew and providing a warm inn. It’s enough.

It has to be enough.

It’s not enough right now, though. The boy keeps cringing from him every time he makes a move, and Cas doesn’t know how much of that is because of previous mistreatment and how much is because Cas is doing things that are making him afraid.

 _Maybe if you weren’t such a freak,_ Cas thinks, frustrated. _Maybe if you spoke to him like a normal human, he wouldn’t be scared like a hunted rabbit._

It’s this thought, that his strangeness is scaring the boy, that finally unlocks his voice and pushes the words out of his mouth.

“What’s your name?” He asks at last.

The boy flinches so hard that he drops the plate he’s holding. It plunges into the tub of water between them with a splash that is made far more dramatic than it would otherwise be if it hadn’t already been so quiet.

The boy gasps like he has dropped a baby on its head. His hands fly up to cover his mouth, and he looks at Cas like he thinks Cas is going to eat him. His face is white, and his eyes are huge.

Cas has the horrifying thought that the boy might start crying, an idea which is so terrifying that it pushes Cas’s next words out of his mouth before he overthinks them again.

“It’s alright!” He says immediately. “It’s alright, it didn’t even break, look, it’s alright.”

He pulls the undamaged plate out from the water, presenting it to the boy for his inspection.

The boy’s gaze doesn’t move from Cas’s face for several moments, and Cas is left standing awkwardly with his arm extended, plate on display for reasons that are becoming less clear to him with every passing second.

Finally, slowly, the boy looks down at the plate, then up at Cas again, and then at last his shoulders seem to relax. He moves his hands away from his mouth and reaches out to take the plate, still timid, like he thinks Cas is going to change his mind about being angry and smash the dish against his bruised body.

His fingers are trembling when they wrap around the edge of the dish. Cas immediately wishes he hadn’t noticed this.

 _My God,_ Cas thinks, guilty and more than a little alarmed. _What the hell has happened to you._

Too much, clearly, if the boy’s reaction is anything to go by.

He and the boy stare at each other for another moment, before the boy looks away again.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says. His voice isn’t as rough as it had been earlier, but it is just as soft.

“It’s alright,” Cas says for the fourth time.

Is there something else he’s supposed to say?

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t _know._

Cas isn’t sure that he’s ever felt more frustrated with himself for his lack of tact.

_Why can I never figure out what to say?_

He reaches around in his mind, struggling to find something else to fill the silence, to reassure the boy.

 _What would father say?_ He thinks.

But father wouldn’t be in this situation at all, because father wouldn’t have let the boy into the tavern to begin with.

This thought disquiets him. He’s hyperaware all of a sudden of the storm howling outside like a vengeful spirit, having only gotten angrier in the hours since the runway had shuffled his way inside.

Draped in the shadows of the low torchlight, the boy looks like a ghost, fragile and haunted. He clutches the plate in his hands like it is the only thing anchoring him to this reality.

He still looks cold.

Cas knows, with a certainty he wishes he didn’t have, that the storm has gotten too violent for the boy to have survived it.

If his father was alive, this boy would be dead. He doesn’t know what to do with this thought but shove it aside and wish it gone.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Cas says instead of following the depressing path his mind wants to wander down. “You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to.”

“It’s Dean,” the boy says, ignoring Cas’s offer. He’s starting to look somewhat embarrassed, cheeks blushing a pretty shade of pink. His blind panic seems to be fading, apparently replaced by the dawning realization that he had overreacted.

 _Maybe it wasn’t just because of you, then,_ Cas thinks, and his guilt for scaring the boy recedes somewhat.

The boy bites his lip, then adds, all in a rush, “You don’t have to call me that, though, you can call me anything, Sir.”

He speaks with a tone that is low and sweet, though somewhat frantic.

He has a nice name, Cas thinks, and a nice voice, warm like the water between them. It would sound better without the edge of nervousness to it. Cas hopes he’ll be able to hear it free of fear.

“That’s a pretty name,” Cas responds, ignoring the boy’s unsettling offer and pasting on what he hopes is a friendly smile.

The boy, _Dean,_ shifts, and wraps his damp arms around himself, still clutching the plate with one hand.

“I’m glad it pleases you, sir.”

Even with his lack of social graces, this strikes Cas as an odd response. Not quite the way people normally react to a compliment. Like he is relieved rather than pleased.

“Oh,” Cas replies, again uncertain. “You don’t have to call me that. Um. Sir. I mean, my name is Cas. Well, Castiel, but everyone calls me Cas. Well, my father did, but he’s dead.”

Dean just stares at him like he doesn’t know how to respond, and Cas realizes belatedly that he shouldn’t have said that.

_Stupid._

He always seems to either clam up or ramble to the point of making people uncomfortable when he’s nervous.

And he is nervous, by god is he nervous.

It’s been years since he’s had to interact for this long with someone besides his father. It’s been years since he’s talked with someone his own age.

 _And never with someone so attractive,_ Cas thinks, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

It’s true, though. Even covered in dirt and bruises, the boy’s beauty is undeniable.

It’s his turn to blush now, and he can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment at his awkwardness, his own train of thought, or at how pretty Dean is in the torchlight.

He has freckles. Cas likes them. The longer he looks, the more that appear, like stars in the dark night sky.

Unbidden, he remembers Dean’s offer.

_You can touch me, if you want._

Cas wants to sink into the floor, or burst into flames, or some combination of the two.

“We’re almost finished,” Cas blurts instead of doing either of these things. “Would you mind waiting here and finishing up while I go fetch a blanket for you?”

He needs a moment. He needs a moment alone.

He can’t stand to be looked at suddenly, by this boy with such pretty eyes that are unbearably afraid.

He doesn’t know how to handle whatever emotion they’re evoking. So all he can do is get away from it.

Dean nods, looking confused, but Cas has no energy to spare him.

“Thank you,” he says quickly, and then he is gone, walking quickly away from the wash bucket and past the fireplace, making his way up the stairs towards his room.

 _Get control of yourself,_ Cas thinks, irritated, as he shuts the door behind him.

He leans against it, glad for the way it holds his weight, now that his legs seem to be rebelling against their job.

God, what is wrong with him? Is he really so pathetic that he’s overwhelmed with such brief and stilted conversation?

 _You really are a freak,_ he thinks, but at the same time he knows there’s more to it than that.

It had been hard to stand next to the boy for so long and pretend not to notice all the ways he’s been hurt, to pretend not to be choking on his palpable fright and desperation. It had been hard not to think about the hand shaped bruises around his skinny wrists and neck, hard to ignore the dried blood staining the boy’s short tunic and thighs. It had been hard not to notice how the boy bent his whole body towards the steaming water, and dipped his arms farther in than they needed to go, still greedy for any warmth he could reach.

Cas lets out a shaky breath, and sinks down to sit against the door. He puts his head in his hands.

He isn’t used to such violence. He isn’t used to seeing how people treat those without power.

It scares him.

It scares him badly.

He doesn’t know how to interact with the boy, Dean, _Dean, his name is Dean,_ without acknowledging the multitude of elephants that have followed him into the room.

Somehow, he seems to be worse at handling Dean’s situation than Dean himself is.

 _God,_ Cas thinks, _Pull yourself together._

Roughly, he wipes at his eyes.

He needs to stop hiding. He needs to stop hiding in here, needs to get up and get Dean a blanket so the poor thing can finally go to sleep.

The both of them have had a long day.

In the end, it’s his father’s old blanket that he chooses, pulled out from the trunk it’s been stored in for the past four months. It’s the warmest fur he has, and it soothes some of Cas’s anxiety to be sure that the boy in his kitchen won’t be cold through the night. Really, between the fur and the fireplace, Dean’s more likely to overheat than shiver, but it makes Cas feel good to know the boy will be cared for, at least until morning.

 _If he doesn’t rob me blind and run during the night, I’ll give him my father’s old coat and boots in the morning. At least a little coin as well._

He can’t really afford to, but he knows he’ll be sick with worry the whole winter if he sends the boy away empty handed.

Hell. He’ll probably be sick with worry the whole winter anyway. But if he gives him some coin and clothes, he might at least be able to talk himself into believing that the boy won’t freeze or starve to death before spring.

He clutches his decision close to his heart, and it wards off some of the pressure on his chest. At least, Cas has begun to feel like he can breathe again by the time he makes his way down the stairs.

“I found the fur,” he calls out as he reaches the bottom. “It’s a good one. We’ll set you up by the fire, you should- oh.”

The anxiety that had started to recede slams back into him in full force. The dishes are done, dried, and stacked, and Dean is kneeling next to the sink, naked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xtchvjbknlm I'm not happy with this chapter I feel like I was wrestling with it like I was wrestling a bear. Talked myself into not deleting it and starting over as I usually do tho, which is what results in it taking months for me to update lol. I'm not gonna stress about this I'm gonna have FUN goddamn it!!!
> 
> My god they are both so awkward. It is as painful to write as it is to read, I promise. Poor Cas is what the kids call "overwhelmed" lol. He's like pretty boy??!!? pretty boy who's been HURT????!!!?!?? Error 404.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!! I am open to any suggestions. Some of you have given suggestions already, many of which I do intend to incorporate, tho we haven't gotten there yet. This story is moving pretty slow lol. As always, feel free to come scream/cry with me about my writing or just Destiel/supernatural in general on my tumblr https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :)


	5. Chapter 5

It’s nice in the tavern. More than warm. It had taken him a while to notice anything else. He’d had to eat first, and sleep, but now that he has his mind seems to be working again, and he’s decided he likes it here.

It’s clean, and it smells like bread. There were some drunk people in the dining room, but they had been laughing instead of yelling, so Dean hadn’t minded so much. But he likes the kitchen he’s in now even better than the dining area. It’s quieter in here, and there aren’t so many people around, drunk or otherwise. The lighting is lower than it was in the dining room, especially now that the sun has gone down, but the torches cast a nice orange glow on everything, and it doesn’t feel like there are monsters hiding in the dark.

It’s…cozy. Nothing like the tavern Dean had come from, with the sticky surfaces and the angry men. Dean thought all taverns were like that. He didn’t know they could be like this, homey like the window of the bakery he was never allowed to go into. It’s all very strange, but something about the atmosphere makes it feel familiar, even though it isn’t.

The boy had taken him back here after he’d woken him, instead of throwing him out. Dean hadn’t been sure if he really wanted help with dishes, or if he’d start pulling Dean’s clothes off once the door between the rooms swung shut. He hadn’t cared either way, grateful to be kept from the snow.

But he had meant the dishes, which isn’t so strange, Dean supposes. John always had him working, doing menial tasks whenever he wasn’t with a client. There is always a lot to do around an inn, and as far as Dean can tell so far, this boy is alone to deal with the work. It makes sense that he would take what help he can get, even from something as useless as Dean is.

He is less sure whether the boy will want more from him after. He hadn’t touched Dean while they worked, but he saw him looking. Maybe he likes Dean. That would be good. He didn’t do well with the dishes, was lazy and slow, because his arms were shaking too much. Maybe he can make up for it.

He wants to make up for it. He likes the boy too. He feels like the tavern, comfortable and nice. He likes how the boy talks; quietly, sparingly, leaving space in the conversation for Dean to think of how to respond. Dean talks the same way.

The boy said his name is Cas. Dean likes how Cas gave him food, and let him sleep, and how he hadn’t yelled or beat on him even when Dean was a stupid bitch and dropped his plate.

 _He’s like Sam,_ Dean thinks, wiping down one of the dishes. Kindhearted. Kind to Dean even though he’s stupid and lazy and a whore who doesn’t deserve anything.

 _I’m so lucky,_ Dean thinks, grouping the dried cutlery into neat piles. And he is, so lucky, to have stumbled into another person like Sam. Dean had thought Sam was the only one.

The boy- Cas- had gone upstairs, not a minute ago, had ordered Dean to finish the dishes. He’d ordered him strangely, had said “Would you mind,” like he cared what Dean felt about it.

He said he was going to get Dean a blanket.

Against his will, Dean’s eyes flicker over to the fireplace. The rug in front of it is large and thick. It would be nice to lie on it. Hadn’t Cas said he’d let him lie on it?

Fuck.

He tears his eyes away, and focuses back on the task at hand.

 _Don’t get ahead of yourself,_ Dean thinks.

He can’t be sure. He can’t be sure what Cas meant about the blanket.

He can’t be sure.

He _can’t be sure._

_There is a rug by the fireplace in the kitchen, and I could bring down a blanket. It’s warm through the night, and the storm will break by dawn. If you are willing to stay and help me serve breakfast, I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay the night._

Hope overwhelms him so suddenly that he has to put the dish he’s drying down, and brace himself again the wash bin. He feels tears spring to his eyes.

It would be so nice to sleep next to the fire.

He’s been outside for such a long time.

_You can’t be sure. Don’t get ahead of yourself. He could still change his mind._

It had sounded like the boy was going to get a blanket to give to Dean. It had sounded like he was going to let Dean sleep by the fire.

Dean feels his lip wobble, and has to bite it to keep himself from making any noises. He’s gripping the edge of the wash bin so tightly that his knuckles are white.

_He could still change his mind. He could still change his mind._

He’d done a bad job with the dishes, had been lazy and slow. He wasn’t even finished. And the boy hadn’t even fucked him yet.

John would be mad. He'd make Dean sleep outside.

_But he isn’t like John. He’s nice, like Sam._

It’s a silly thing to believe. He just met the boy today.

But he’d given Dean food for no reason. Like Sam would sometimes do. 

He’d asked for Dean’s name. He hadn’t called him something bad. He’d said, _that’s a nice name._

_That’s a nice name._

_That’s a nice name._

_That’s a nice name._

Dean has to shut his eyes to keep the wetness from spilling over.

Sam used to use his name instead of calling him something bad too.

He misses Sam.

Sam didn’t like it when John made him sleep outside.

He always left the back door to the storage room open. So Dean could hide inside there instead.

Dean rarely took him up on that, too scared of John’s wrath and too ashamed of his failures. He hid in the storage only when it was so cold he really thought he might die.

Only on nights like tonight.

The wind is loud outside. He very much does not want the boy to change his mind.

Maybe the boy is nice like Sam. But he also gave Dean work to do and he still hasn’t done it.

Dean steels himself inside, forcing his fear and his hope and the gaping hole where Sam should be away. He pushes himself upright, off of the wash bin, and wipes at his eyes roughly.

Shit. How long has he been standing here, fretting? How long has he been worrying to himself instead of working?

The boy has been gone too long for someone who just went to fetch a blanket.

_Maybe he really isn’t planning on letting you stay._

He’s not thinking about that. He’s not thinking about that, nor is he thinking about what the boy could be doing upstairs. It will serve no purpose but to scare him.

 _What will come will come,_ he thinks, and he does the damn dishes.

He dries and stacks the pots and pans carefully. He has to show Cas that he did a good job.

Then he takes his clothes off and kneels, because that’s how he gets people to like him, and he very much wants Cas to like him.

He wants Cas to like him. He's nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but the next one is well into the works so hopefully y'all don't go too crazy waiting. Originally they were gonna be the same chapter but this felt like a good break point and I didn't want to make y'all keep waiting lol.
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed!! As always, you can come talk to me at my blog https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :)


	6. Chapter 6

The boy drops the words he was going to say like they are something he had been holding. He blinks at Dean’s body like it is something unfathomable.

His eyes are blue, Dean notices for the first time. They’re nice eyes. Comforting, like rest after a long day of work.

They are filled with something, but it isn’t desire. Dean doesn’t know what it is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s failed.

He looks away then, ashamed.

“Dean,” he heard the boy say, after a long pause. “You’re…hurt.”

The boy says the words slowly, like the concept is unfamiliar to him.

It would be nice, Dean thinks, to be unfamiliar with the concept of hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says back, and he is. He is. He knows what he looks like, covered in bruises and scars. He knows he’s disgusting. He wishes he wasn’t, for this boy. He’d like to be pleasing, for Cas. Cas has been so nice to him. He wishes he could be nice back.

But he’s all used up. John hadn’t wanted him anymore either. Why would Cas? He’s already been thrown away once. He should know by now that he’s repulsive to decent people.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He doesn’t have anything else to offer.

There is a moment of quiet, and Dean thinks that maybe the boy is going to tell him to leave.

Instead, he turns around and walks up the stairs without another word.

Dean wants to die.

Shame fills him like wine. He feels his heart shrivel like a dead flower, and his body curls in on itself like one too.

He feels his eyes start to sting.

Well. That’s it then.

_Stupid slut._

The boy had been carrying a blanket. Maybe the blanket had been for Dean.

Not anymore, because he’d been stupid and a slut and disgusting. Everything John said he was. He tried not to be so revolting, especially in this nice clean inn. But it’s not something he can stop. It’s not something he can control. It seeps out of him like sickness, dirtying everything around him and sending good people running.

_Stupid, **stupid** whore._

So disgusting he’s not even worth the breath it takes to tell him to get out.

Dean pulls his already curled up body in even tighter. His cheeks are wet, though he doesn’t remember starting to cry. He isn’t making any noise, at least, so Cas won’t be disturbed.

He will go. He will go, and go willingly. He won’t make the boy throw him out. He won’t make the boy touch him, or talk to him again. It would be the worst kind of repayment to continue to be so bad and foul in his presence.

He just. Needs a moment. He needs a moment, for the pounding embarrassment and guilt to recede. Just a bit. Just a bit, so he can make his body move again. It’s not listening to him right now.

He must take too long though. Or. Or, he must be so disgusting that the boy can tell he’s still in his kitchen, even though he’s not making any noise. He must be so disgusting that the boy just knows, that he can just _feel_ it, because barely a minute has passed before he hears the boy tromping down the stairs again.

_Fuck. Fuck._

He doesn’t look up from the ground, can’t bear to see the anger he’s sure is present in the boy’s face.

He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain that he will go, but the words get caught on his humiliation and nothing comes out.

“I-” he forces. “I-“

A sob punches it’s way out of his throat, which is the last thing he wanted, which is pathetic, absolutely pathetic, so he slams his mouth shut to avoid any more weakness finding its way out of him.

He can usually hold it together better. He’s used to being alone. He’s used to people not liking him, and wanting nothing from him but for him to go away.

It’s just.

Cas had been so nice. He’d been so nice to him.

It’s _embarrassing_ to have fucked it up. It’s so embarrassing to be rejected by someone so kind.

His cheeks are so hot he feels like they’re in flames.

He hears steps coming towards him, and he flinches, readying himself to be kicked or yanked to his feet, which is exactly what he told himself he _wouldn’t_ make Cas do, but he can’t even leave right, that’s how pathetic he is.

Cas doesn’t grab him roughly, though, or shove him, or shout at him to leave.

He kneels next to Dean’s folded form, slowly, and rests his hand gently on Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Don’t cry, Dean, I’ll help you.”

 _What?_ Dean thinks, but more tears stream out of his eyes before he even begins to process what Cas is saying, just at the tone of his voice. It’s still quiet. It still sounds nice.

Even though Dean was bad. Cas isn’t shouting at him. Dean likes that he isn’t shouting at him. He hates being shouted at. It means someone is mad at him, and Dean hates it when people are mad at him.

Cas doesn’t sound mad at him.

An aborted noise fights its way through Dean’s bitten lips, some helpless sound of relief he can’t stop.

Cas isn’t shouting at him.

He hates being shouted at.

Cas adds some pressure to his touch on Dean’s shoulder, still gentle, but encouraging Dean to twist his torso so his back is facing the other boy. Dean move easily.

Cas makes a disapproving noise, and Dean digs his nails further into his arms.

He knows what the boy is seeing. Lash marks, red and raised, still not healed though he’d not been whipped for more than a week. And scars, layers upon layers of scars, old ones trying to hide under new ones but never quite succeeding.

Dean hangs his head lower.

“My god,” he hears Cas mutter. “Where on earth did you come from?”

“An inn,” Dean whispers, and both he and Cas seem equally surprised that he’s spoken.

“An inn?” Cas says, sounding confused. “Like this one.”

Dean cringes, and shakes his head. “No. Not like this one. This one is….”

He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe what it feels like to be here, how different this place is than anywhere he’s been allowed before.

“I like this one better,” he settles on eventually.

His voice sounds soft, with the shaky tone it can’t help but take on when he’s crying.

He doesn’t like it, but at least he can speak again.

Unconsciously, he relaxes his own grip on his arms minutely, and the pain he’d been causing himself recedes.

The boy doesn’t seem mad at him.

It’s a tenuous observation, one he feels too miserable to really trust, but it’s strengthened a moment later when he feels something cool and sticky touch the marks on his back.

He jumps, and a frightened noise comes out of him, but whatever the boy is doing to his back doesn’t hurt at all.

In fact, he realizes as the sticky substance continues to be spread along his skin, it actually feels…very nice. Cool. And soothing. Dean hadn’t realized how inflamed and raw his skin had felt until it doesn’t feel like that anymore.

Cas doesn’t tell him what he’s doing, and Dean is too scared to ask, or even turn his head to look. He doesn’t want to break the spell of whatever this is, where he isn’t being yelled at an is still warm and inside and is touched with something that feels so nice.

Why does it feel so nice?

Head still bowed, Dean dares to flicker his eyes to the side, where he can see Cas’s lap out of the corner of his eye.

Honey. It’s honey. There is a container of honey in his lap, and that must be what Cas is putting on his lashes.

It feels good.

Baffled, Dean blinks at the beaten earth floor beneath him.

Sometimes, when John got mad enough and Dean was with a client, he would beat Sam instead.

It makes Dean sick to think about, to think about the times he couldn’t protect him, to think about _now,_ oh god now, what is happening to him now that Dean isn’t there.

Dean shuts his eyes, and forces himself to wade through his own panic to the memories that had brought these thoughts to light. Sometimes after Sam was beaten, he’d get the honey from the medicine cabinet. He was allowed, since he was John’s son. Dean would help him put it on.

Sometimes, Sam would try to give him honey too, when John was particularly rough with him. Dean never, ever took him up on that offer, far too afraid of John’s retaliation.

He hadn’t known it felt so nice though. He hadn’t known how much it really does help.

Dean’s eyes are still shut now. He’s tired again.

He wipes at the drying tears on his cheeks and eyes. His face feels uncomfortably sticky from the salt water.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly, finally able to get the words out.

Cas pauses in his work, and Dean tenses, afraid he’s broken the spell. But he hasn’t, and Cas continues a second later, saying only, “What on earth for?”

Dean struggles to answer that. He’d been so sure only a few minutes ago that he had done absolutely everything wrong. It’s hard to think, though, now, hard to hang on to that panic and guilt while Cas is touching him gently and isn’t yelling at all.

It’s so exhausting to be so afraid all the time. It’s so hard not to be lulled into calmness.

“I…” Dean blinks his eyes open, and notices now that his hands have drifted down to his lap. His arms have claw marks on them, from where Dean had dug his nails into his own skin. “I’m just. Do you want me to go?”

Where the courage to even ask comes from, he doesn’t know, except that maybe it has to do with that Cas really doesn’t seem mad at him.

He had been so sure he’d have to leave when Cas turned around and went back upstairs. But is this all he had intended? Had he only been going to get the honey?

He hadn’t put the blanket back upstairs. It’s next to him on the ground where he’d carried it to, and it’s brushing up against Dean’s thigh.

Cas pauses in his ministrations at Dean’s words again, for longer this time, and Dean thinks, _Shit._ But Cas doesn’t yell at him or make him leave. 

Instead he says, “Why on earth would I want you to go? The snow’s coming down harder than ever now. I already said you could stay the night.”

Relief drowns his terror like floodwaters. He almost feels like he could start crying again, but he doesn’t have the energy.

“Oh,” Dean says simply. “Thank you.”

Cas reaches the end of his back, and moves his hands away. Dean can hear him wiping his hands on a damp towel behind him.

“Is that why you were crying? Did you think I was going to make you leave?”

Dean swallows.

“Yes,” he says simply, because it’s true. He feels stupid now. But he’d felt stupid before, as well. He always feels stupid. He never knows what’s going on, or how people are going to treat him. He can never tell what’s going to make someone angry, so he’s afraid all the time.

It makes him tired, to be so afraid.

Cas doesn’t answer him again for a long moment. Something touches Dean’s back that isn’t the honey, and it takes until it’s being wrapped around his torso for Dean to realize that it’s a bandage. Cas winds it from the bottom up, and it keeps the honey trapped against his skin and his back dry and unsticky.

“I thought you were crying because you were in pain,” Cas says eventually, as he’s tying the bandage off at the top.

Dean stares down at the blood that is still present between his thighs.

“I’m always in pain, Sir,” he mumbles. “Can’t always be crying.”

Done bandaging him, Cas’s hands drop from his back. Dean misses the touch. No one has touched him like this in a long time.

“I would be,” Cas says bluntly, and before Dean can think of a response, Cas is standing up, and a thin linen robe is being dropped around his shoulders.

Dean clutches it close almost automatically. He hadn’t noticed Cas bringing this down. He hadn’t noticed him bringing anything down.

Stupid.

Cas steps in front of him, and Dean looks up.

The boy doesn’t smile, but his eyes are gentle all the same.

Dean remembers that he’d thought the boy’s eyes were comforting. He’d forgotten that so quickly, in his panic.

“Get some rest,” Cas says, and he gestures to the blanket next to Dean.

“The fire will burn until dawn, and the both the rug and the blanket are thick. Bear, my father hunted them. You’ll be alright until morning.”

Dean nods, almost automatically, clutching the clean white robe around his naked body. 

_You’ll be alright until morning._

It feels almost like a command rather than a reassurance. But not like the commands John gave him. Almost like…like a decree, a statement made by god through a prophet. Something that must be true now that it’s been said.

Dean will be alright until morning. The boy has commanded it, so it will be true.

Dean likes that. It feels solid. It feels safe.

He doesn’t say anything in response, but the boy doesn’t seem to need him too. He leaves then, as abruptly as he had the first time, but it doesn’t make Dean think he’s done something wrong now. It just makes him think that the boy maybe has some trouble with words.

When he settles onto the rug, he finds it soft and thick, and when he curls up under the blanket, he finds it the same. He feels enveloped in comfort.

The wind howls like a dog outside, but it doesn’t scare Dean, because Cas said he would be alright.

_You’ll be alright until morning._

Dean likes the thought of that.

He likes Cas too.

He stares at the flickering fire, and it lulls him into stillness. The flames move in patterns that feel familiar and calm. Like Cas. Comforting and warm and nice to look at.

They dance for him until he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote about half of this chapter then decided I hated it and scrapped it, and wrote this instead in one sitting. It's much less dramatic than the first draft and I like it better. I am a Simple Man. Drama is too tiring now a days. I just want Dean and Cas to be warm and safe. :)
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed. As always, you can come talk to me on my tumblr at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/


	7. Chapter 7

The boy doesn’t rob him blind. Cas hadn’t really thought he would, especially not after the scene last night. Dean seems about as timid as a house mouse, and about as nefarious as one too. He doesn’t seem like he’d have the strength of either heart or hand to steal from anyone, let alone a person who has been kind to him.

Still, he’s relived to see the boy still there on the rug in the morning, dead to the world and curled up under the blanket like a pill bug. Cas doesn’t know what he had been fearing he’d find. That he’d been robbed, perhaps, but maybe also simply that the boy would be gone. That he’d have run off, scared of Cas hurting him or turning him in to whatever cruel people he’s clearly been running from.

Especially now that he’s told Cas something of where he’d come from.

 _An inn,_ Dean had told him. Cas had been surprised to hear an answer at all. You would think that a runaway would keep his past as close to his chest as possible, for fear of being caught and sent back to where he came from.

Perhaps he had been too frightened of Cas to refuse to answer, as rhetorical as his question had been.

 _I like this one better,_ he’d added with no prompting, and that Cas hadn’t found to be a surprise.

 _No wonder,_ Cas thinks, looking at the boy’s sleeping form.

The fire is only embers now, and the kitchen had gotten chilly during the night. The boy is snuggled deep into his blankets, with only his nose and eyes peeking out from under them. And still.

And still, Cas can see bruises. One big purple one around his left eye, where he’d clearly been punched, and one smaller one on his forehead, where he must have had his head smacked into something solid.

The image comes into his mind unbidden, of someone manhandling this underfed and skittish child, of grabbing him by the hair and slamming his skull into a wall.

It’s such a disturbing image that Cas has to turn away suddenly, can’t look any longer at the boy’s fragile form beneath the furs.

He feels pressure behind his eyes.

He’s just woken up and already he feels like crying.

 _Get it together,_ he thinks, but it’s hard, it’s hard because he’s tired and it’s still dark outside and there is half dead boy in his kitchen and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He’d been up half the night worrying, tossing and turning and frightening himself thinking about what he’d seen. He couldn’t get the image of the boy’s skinny injured body out of his head.

He’d tried to help him. He’d tried. Honey for the lash marks, and bandages to keep away infection. Food and a good night’s rest for his general state of exhaustion and starvation.

But he hadn’t known how to handle the bruises. There were so many, layered over themselves in different stages of healing, some so dark they were almost black. To Cas it seemed like barely an inch of the boy’s body hadn’t been bruised.

And. And.

He didn’t even know how to acknowledge the blood between the boy’s legs.

It had kept him awake, mind and heart in turmoil with no resolution in sight.

 _An inn,_ the boy had said. He’d come from an inn.

He looked more like he’d clawed his way out of hell.

Who could possibly hit someone so young and small? What could someone so eager to please, so timid and obedient, possibly have done to deserve to be lashed like a hardened criminal?

How could someone be so rough with a boy already so willing to spread his legs that they leave him with blood trailing down his thighs?

The thoughts had left him sleepless.

He’d woken again having found no answers, and now confronted with the reality of the boy, once again feels more lost and afraid than ever.

He starts his morning chores quietly, subdued and distracted, frightened of waking Dean because he’s even more frightened of speaking to him.

He doesn’t know how, after what he’d seen last night, and he’s relieved when the boy doesn’t so much as twitch when he leans over him to rekindle the morning fire.

That relief expands like blown glass when he leaves the kitchen, stepping out with the milk pail and egg basket into the unlit winter morning.

The door shuts behind him, and Cas lets out the breath he’d been holding. It turns to smoke in the cold air, barely visible in the darkness.

It can’t be much past four, still. It will be hours before the sun comes up.

Usually, Cas finds this time lonely. Usually, he waits for the dawn like women wait for their husbands to come home from war. Usually, he misses his father more than ever, remembers when he did not have to get up so early and when his morning chores came with quiet company. Usually, if he’s going to cry that day, this is when he does it.

Today, he is grateful for the hours of dark that lay before him, and grateful that he’s alone. He has time, then, before the boy will wake, has hours before he has to confront what he’s gotten himself into.

_Take your time, daylight. Your presence won’t be missed, today._

The snow crunches like shattered glass under his boots as he walks to the barn. On darker days, he takes the lantern with him, scared of meeting an unseen wolf or wandering into the forest because he can’t see where he’s going.

The moon is nearly full now, though, and it does more than brighten the sky. The world is covered in snow, and the snow is white and bright like crystals, reflecting the pale blue light a thousand fold.

The storm had been loud and huge only hours ago, but it’s gone now, and the world is muted and peaceful and lit like it’s covered in mirrors.

The barn is only a minute’s walk from the inn, but the crunch of the snow is soothing and the quiet of the night is calm, and he feels less like a hurricane by the time he reaches the brown wooden doors.

It takes a few minutes to get them open, because the sky has dumped so much snow during the night. He’d left the shovel outside though, thankfully, so it’s not too long before he’s able to yank the door open.

“Hello, Luna,” he tells the cow when he sees her.

Luna moos at him mournfully.

Cas smiles at the sound.

He likes Luna. They’d had her since he was a child. He had named her, right away, calling her Luna after some spot on her side that he’d thought had looked like a crescent. His father had looked at him with some bemusement when he’d thought of it, had said “She’s just a cow, Castiel.”

But he hadn’t said it like he disapproved, just like he didn’t understand, so Cas hadn’t felt ashamed. And eventually his father had started calling her Luna too.

“Yes, I know, I know, I’m late,” he says. “I had a rather eventful evening, and I got a bit of a late start today.”

He shuffles his way inside, stomping a bit to get some of the snow off his legs.

“I hope you weren’t too cold last night. That storm was really a howler. Did you like your blanket?”

Cas had draped over Luna a dark woolen throw, in preparation for the storm. His father had always said she would be fine, and that she was just an animal, and hadn’t let Cas ruin a good piece of cloth by making it the property of a cow.

It made Cas feel guilty to disobey him, now that he’s passed away and can’t scold Cas for his wastefulness. But Luna is a good cow, gentle natured and sweet, and had listed to Cas cry enough times since his father died that he’d feel guiltier keeping the blanket from her than he does for disobeying a dead man’s rules.

Though Luna doesn’t answer him, he thinks she must have appreciated the warmth. If the storm was bad enough to drive little lost runaways into his inn, it was bad enough for Luna to be cold.

“Were you frightened?” he asks the cow as he goes to sit on the stool next to her, placing the lantern to his side. He settles himself, placing the pail underneath her udders and starting to milk. “I know the wind probably rattled the barn a lot. I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you.”

It’s something he did a lot as a child, scared of the wind and worried sick about the cow and the chickens. He’d stumble over here in the middle of the night, fighting against the wind and the snow and the cold, and squeeze his way inside. And he’d stand in the dark, shivering, petting the chickens gathered in his arms and comforting Luna when the shaking barn slammed particularly loudly.

Until the night where he spent so long with the animals that morning came, and his father had found him there. His father had yelled at him, and that had been the end of that.

That was also the day his father had taken him to town to see the doctor, and that more than the yelling is what told Cas he shouldn’t visit the animals at night again.

 _“He’s almost nine, and he still barely talks,”_ he remembers his father saying, discussing with the doctor like the fact that he didn’t talk meant he also couldn’t hear. _“He’s strange, won’t look at me or anyone else. Sometimes he starts screaming because he doesn’t like the sound of something, or the feel of it. He speaks to the animals more than he speaks to me.”_

The doctor had said he might be a changeling child, or possibly possessed by a demon. His father had called the doctor a rude word, and they’d left. That was the first and last time he was taken to see a doctor because of his strangeness.

Cas had stopped visiting the animals when it stormed all the same. He hadn’t wanted to see that look on his father’s face again, when he’d opened the barn and asked what on earth he was doing, and Cas had answered him truthfully. It had made him feel like he was too strange for even his father to put up with.

But then his father had died, and since then Cas hasn’t been able to find it in himself to care whether he’s behaving strangely. There’s no one left who speaks to him anyway.

So he visits the animals during the storms again.

Not last night, though. Last night he’d been occupied.

He says as much to Luna.

“We have a guest, you know. A real guest, not someone staying at the inn. His name is Dean. I don’t think he likes me very much. I keep scaring him.”

Luna huffs like she finds that hard to believe.

“That’s because you know me better, so you know I’m not going to hurt you. Also you’re a cow. Cow’s don’t get scared of the same things people do.”

Luna flicks her tail at him.

“It’s true. People get scared of all sorts of things, you know, not just loud noises and strangers. People get scared of you looking at them too much, and at you not looking at them enough too. People get scared when you don’t talk to them, especially when they’re talking to you, but they also get scared if you say the wrong things back, or talk to them without saying things like “hello” and “what’s your name” first. They get scared if you flap your hands around or rock in your seat. They get really scared if you start doing that. They walk away as fast as they can."

He finishes milking Luna and stands, picking up the now full milk pail.

Luna huffs at him again.

“I know. I don’t understand it either. I’m more like you, Luna, I don’t like loud noises and strangers. I don’t see what’s so upsetting about the rest.”

She blinks at him quietly, and he sighs. He rubs her nose gently, petting her fur like he pets the grass in the summer to feel it flow against his skin.

“His name is Dean, the guest. Mostly, I think he’s just scared because too many people have hit him, and he’s thinks I might hit him too. But I don’t…”

He drops his hand, and looks to the side, out the open barn doors.

The sky has started to turn grey, hinting at the dawn to come. He’s spent too long here, hiding from the world.

Breakfast is going to be served late.

“I don’t know how to put people at ease, Luna. I make them nervous and I don’t know how to stop. He’s already so afraid. I don’t want to frighten him even more.”

He turns back to her, like she might have the answers he’s been looking for the whole night. Like she might have the answers he’s been looking for his whole life.

“Luna, I don’t know what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Dean in this chapter, but his POV will be next so! Hope ur not too disappointed, I miss him too. But I also liked getting some more info on Cas and seeing his introspection. He's an anxious bby and I love him very much. Soon Dean will love him very much too and give him all the hugs and kisses in the world until he's not lonely any more.
> 
> As always, you can come talk to me at my tumblr https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ I tag my rambling thoughts as I plan the story and write as "wander home" and anything that gives me wander home vibes as "wander home vibes" lol (so creative right??)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by...bread!

In the morning, there is bread. He wakes to the smell of it, and blinks his eyes open to the sight of Cas reaching over him, pulling it out of the small brick oven that rests above the fireplace.

The boy smiles down at him when he sees that Dean’s eyes are open.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean stares quietly back, uncertain.

It’s light out. And the innkeeper is awake.

Did he sleep too long?

“You slept well, I trust?” Cas says, oblivious to Dean’s worries.

He’s still holding the bread, and smiling down at Dean like he hadn’t just slept through all the morning chores.

Dean drops his eyes, nervous about looking at the boy for too long.

Tentatively, he nods.

He did sleep well. He’d slept better than he can ever remember sleeping in his life, warm and soft and _alone,_ with no frightening man there to grab at him during the night.

He doesn’t know what to think of it. It feels so nice, to wake without someone else’s hands on his body.

“I’m glad,” the innkeeper says, and then he steps away from Dean, moving over to the table to put down the tray of bred.

Dean stares at him as he goes.

He doesn’t seem mad.

Even though it’s light out, hours after he usually starts on his morning work. Even though the boy has clearly been working while Dean slept.

John would have whipped him till there was no skin left on his back, if he’d woken to find Dean still asleep. He would have beaten him hard enough to break bones.

Cas hasn’t so much as kicked him.

He stares at Cas’s back as the boy takes the warm bread off the tray and places it on the clean table, confused and feeling unmoored.

He sits up, slowly, nervously, like if he moves too suddenly the boy will remember he’s here and give him the beating he deserves. The fur slides off his body, and one of his sleeves slips down with it.

It’s that that makes him notice that he’s still wearing the robe from last night, pale and clean. The robe lay open down his front, exposing his bandaged chest. Dean pulls it closed around him, and uses the sash that had come undone in the night to tie it shut. He’d go bare if he thought that’s what Cas wanted, but the boy hadn’t been happy to see his body last night. He won’t subject Cas to that revolting experience again.

Dean sits there, hugging his robbed waist, half out of bed, tense and uncertain about what to do now.

Cas is humming as he cuts into the bread, some tune Dean half remembers hearing before. He’s not on key, but Dean likes the sound of his voice anyway.

Dean looks down at his legs, and pushes his knees together, making himself small.

He’s warm, even though the robe is thin and the furs have dropped around him. Cas must have rekindled the fire while he was sleeping, because it’s roaring and heating the whole kitchen now.

The storm has stopped, and the sun is shining. Beams of light break through the high crosshatched windows, making a checkerboard pattern on the grey beaten earth floor.

It smells like bread, but like other things too, spices and herbs and dried foods that hang from the ceiling and sit in piles on the shelves.

It’s quiet, but not the kind of quiet that haunts him in the morning at John’s, silence that stretches on in the dark, that tells him no one but him is awake, that makes him jump at the sound of his own breathing.

No, this is a busy sort of quiet, pleasant and mild. Cas is still singing to himself as he works, and he can hear winter birds chirping in the morning air outside. A sweet sawing sound dances in his ears, from Cas cutting into the fresh loafs, and Dean listens to the crust crunching and cracking like a merchant calling out the promise of how good the bread must be.

This world is such a nice place to wake up to.

His eyes shut on their own accord, as if the sight of the kitchen is causing him pain.

He should be more frightened than he is.

He should be frighted. He slept so late, and he still has to work for his keep or the boy will hurt him, and he doesn’t know how the boy likes to punish or if he’s the kind of person to hurt Dean just because he thinks it’s funny. He should be scared, like he was scared last night. No matter that nothing bad had happened, that he’d had his wounds treated and his needs seen to and had been sent to bed with a full stomach and thick furs. No matter. His fright had been sensible, regardless. It had been reasonable, and smart.

He should feel anxiety nipping at his heels, telling him to get up, to apologize, to work, to brace himself for what’s to come.

The sensible feeling isn’t coming, and it’s hard to admit why.

He should be frightened, but all of this is so pleasant that it doesn’t even feel real. It’s hard to be frightened of something that doesn’t feel real. It’s like a daydream, or the feeling one gets looking at a pretty painting. There’s no sense in being nervous about how things might go wrong. Nothing is going to go wrong, because it isn’t real.

Which is stupid. It’s a stupid way to feel, and to think, because it is real, because the boy had said _“you’ll be alright until morning,”_ and it’s morning now. It’s morning now, and the protection offered by the boy’s solemn words is expiring.

Dean forces his eyes open, and forces himself to stand.

The boy turns his head to smile at the noise of Dean moving, and tilts his head in the direction of the table.

“Come here, Dean,” he says, and so Dean goes, obedient, though he doesn’t know what he’s wanted for.

He hovers next to the boy for only a moment before he’s told to sit down, which he does, seating himself at the table’s bench and bowing his head low.

It’s odd to sit at a table. Usually he has to sit on the floor.

The boy is still standing, finishing cutting a loaf.

“We’ll serve the customers their breakfast in about twenty minutes. I was thinking you could stay back here and start washing the dishes as they come in. That way there won’t be such a huge pile to do at the end.”

Dean stares at his lap, hands twisting together.

“Ok,” he says softly.

He’ll do whatever the boy wants him to do.

“In the mean time, breakfast,” he says, and Dean glances up.

The boy pushes aside the cut loafs, and picks up the last, which has not been sliced. He doesn’t bother with the knife, but takes the loaf between his two hands and rips into it, pushing his thumbs into the crust and pulling the pieces apart. The crust doesn’t indent beneath his fingers, but cracks like hardened wax, and Dean can hear it snap and crackle as his fingers push it inwards.

The bread inside is dark, and pulls apart like molasses. Steam rises from the split insides like a trapped spirit. It smells earthy and rich.

Dean’s stomach grumbles.

He flinches, and yanks his eyes away from Cas’s hands. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

Stupid.

_It’s not for you, idiot. Stop eyeing it like you’re gonna make a dive for it._

He doesn’t have to look at it. It doesn’t matter how good it looks. He’s not even hungry.

He’s not. He’s not. 

Dean hugs his middle again, digging his hands into his sides to keep them there.

_You just got fed last night. You’re fine._

It’s true. He rarely gets to eat more than once a day. He’s used to going a long time without food.

Still. 

Still. Cas is nice, like Sam. Maybe if he’s good, if he works hard and doesn’t act like an entitled brat staring at the food while Cas eats his breakfast. Maybe Cas will give him some bread after he does work, before sending him back out to the cold.

Maybe.

He blinks down at his knees, bruised and scraped from too much time spent on them. He feels lonely.

“Do you like cheese?” he hears Cas ask.

“Yes,” he answers without thinking, because he does. Dean likes everything, as long as it’s not too rotten.

Cas makes a humming sound, then moves something and starts cutting again. It’s not bread that he’s cutting.

Dean stares down at the floor, determined not to think about it. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He’s not hungry anyway.

His feet are bare against the cool earth floor. He digs one of his toes slightly into it.

Something clanks as it is set down right in front of him, and Dean jumps, startled. He looks up.

There is a tin plate in front of him. There’s bread on the plate. It’s a large hunk of bread, as big as his hand. It has a thick square of yellow cheese on it, hard and rough edged.

Dean looks further up, to Cas.

Cas is sitting now. He has his own plate in front of him, with the same foods on it, roughly the same amount of each that Dean has. He’s already tearing into his own food, content.

Dean stares back down at his feet.

_Is this a joke?_

He’s not allowed to eat before he works. He knows this. He knows this.

He’s not allowed. He’s not allowed. John will beat him if he tries to steal food. He’ll whip him harder than he did the night he got tossed out.

_John isn’t here._

No.

No.

Dean pushes his toes farther into the dirt, pushes down against them until they hurt.

_Don’t eat it don’t eat it don’t eat it don’t eat it don’teatitdon’teatitdon’teatit_

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Dean shuts his eyes. Swallows.

“Is it for me?”

He hates how his voice sounds. Afraid.

Cas doesn’t answer for a moment, and Dean opens his eyes again. Looks up.

The boy is holding his food in his hands, halfway between the plate and his mouth. He’s forgotten the bread, though, is staring at Dean intently, confusion and concern on his face.

“Of course it’s for you. Why would I put it in front of you if it wasn’t for you?”

His voice is blunt, words straightforward.

 _Stupid,_ Dean thinks, and he starts to blush.

Still.

“I don’t. I don’t get to. I’m not allowed to eat before I do work.”

The boy pinches his lips together. He continues to stare at Dean like he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at.

Dean squirms awkwardly under his judgement.

The boy lowers his food back to his plate.

“Well. My father always said the opposite. He said you can’t work until you eat your fill. Because you need your strength to work, and you need food to get your strength.”

Dean looks at his plate, filled with good things to eat.

Cas’s dad sounds like someone Dean would have liked to belong to.

Belonging to Cas wouldn’t be so bad either. 

God.

What a life that would be.

His hand moves towards the food by its own volition. Gingerly, he plucks the cheese off the bread and places it to the side on the tin plate.

He’ll eat that next.

If he’s getting to eat, he wants to do it slowly. He wants to feel it. He was so hungry last night that he’d barely noticed what he was putting in his mouth.

He’s hungry now. But he notices, he very much notices, what he’s eating.

He’s never had food like this before. He wants to taste it.

Carefully, Dean picks up the bread, delicate as if it were a baby bird.

It’s warm in his hand, like life.

“It wasn’t like that, at the other inn,” he says.

The sound of his own voice surprises him. He hadn’t planned on speaking.

He doesn’t stop, though.

“I always had to work so much to get any food. I tried to work hard, but John said I was lazy and slow and stupid. So I didn’t get fed a lot.”

He pauses, and then the boy says, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Dean brings the bread up to his mouth, but he doesn’t eat it.

Instead, he cups it in both hands, and pushes it against his closed lips, holding it there.

He closes his eyes.

The inside of the hunk is soft like moss, and he likes how it feels against his mouth. The crust is unyielding, though, cuts deep against the meat of his hand. It’s good, hard crust, the kind you can run your fingernails over and tap on to hear a noise.

The heat from the bread bleeds into the soft skin of his face, and Dean thinks he’s never been warm before.

The boy is staring at him. His eyes are still closed, but he can feel the gaze on him like touch.

It doesn’t matter. He looks insane, but it doesn’t matter. This is so nice. The bread is so nice. He’s never had bread like this before.

Pushed right beneath his nose, it smells so good.

His hands are trembling.

“You can eat it, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean hadn’t known he was waiting for permission until it’s given.

Dean eats the bread. It’s coarse and rough and tastes like all the good things that come out of the earth, is hot like sunshine and soft like butter. It’s so good. It’s so so good.

When he’s finished with that, he starts on the cheese, which is sharp and hard and breaks apart in his mouth in irregular patterns when he bites it.

The boy hands him something else in a cup as he finishes, and Dean takes it automatically, and brings it to his lips without looking at what it is.

It’s milk, real milk, from a cow or a goat or a sheep, and Dean moans out loud as he drinks it. He’s never had milk before. Just dirty water and ale, and sometimes spirits if the man he was with that night wanted him drunk. Milk is better than any of that, he decides, is thick and smooth and good.

When he’s finished, he puts the cup down, and hunches over, covering his face with his hands.

He knows the boy is still staring at him. He looks insane. He looks insane.

Maybe he is insane. Maybe being locked up in the dark for so long made him insane, and now he can’t drink milk without wanting to cry.

He’s never had food like this. He’s never been treated like this.

 _I wish Sam was here,_ Dean thinks. Sam deserves what he’s being given now, so much more than Dean does.

“Thank you,” Dean mutters eventually, when he feels like he can speak without screaming.

The words are so inadequate. He doesn’t know how to express what he’s feeling.

Even if it snows again tonight and Dean freezes to death, he’ll know what milk tastes like. And he can think about it, in the cold, when he gets hungry, he can think about what milk tastes like and how warm the bread was in his mouth and how nice the fur felt on his skin and how Cas had put honey on his back instead of fucking him. He can think about those things and he’ll be happy.

He drops his hands, eventually, pulls himself together and looks up. And he was wrong, he finds out, the boy isn’t staring at him. He’s not looking anywhere near him. He’s turned his whole body away, is staring at the grey stone wall, and Dean can’t see the expression on his face.

He watches the boy’s hand twitch, and curl into the fabric of his tunic.

“You’re welcome,” the boy says back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so weird but I think it's my favorite one so far. What do you guys think?
> 
> Also I think about 50% of the words I used in this chapter were the word bread. Some of you were prepared for my bread manifesto bc I wouldn't shut up about how I wanted to write about bread on tumblr. Others of you may be slightly taken aback by my (and therefore Dean's) passion for bread. But as the wise sage John Mulaney once said, Bread is God is Bread!
> 
> Also happy we fired Trump day!!!!!
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed. As always, you can come talk to me at my tumblr https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :)


	9. Chapter 9

Six summers ago, Cas’s father had taken him by the shoulders and shaken him because Cas hadn’t told him that a man was following him. Cas had been looking at the beads in a market stall when his father had taken him by the wrist and pulled him away, tugging him along until they were out of the market and on their way home. Only then had he spoken, telling Cas in a tight voice that a man had been following him, and staring at him.

Cas had known this, had noticed the man staring at him when they were at the butchers, had noticed him push himself off the wall he was leaning against and start trailing after them. That had been about twenty minutes before the bead stall.

He’d told his father as much, and then immediately regretted it, because his father got angry at him, and then started crying.

His father had said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cas hadn’t seen why he would have. The man following him hadn’t bothered him, nor had it been interesting, so he hadn’t brought it up.

His father had told him the man wanted to hurt him. Cas had asked him how he knew that, if he didn’t know the man and hadn’t spoken to him at all.

“Because of how he _acted_ Castiel, because of how he looked at you.”

“But I stare at people too, and I don’t want to hurt them.”

His father had gripped his shoulders then, and shaken him, and then made Cas look him in the eye even though he hadn’t wanted to.

“Don’t you understand? There is no one else like you, Castiel. I’ve never met anyone else like you, but I’ve met many people like him. You have to learn to tell when people are acting strange, and you have to get away from them. Or else you will always be in danger when I am not around.”

Cas had nodded, because he hadn’t known what else to do, hadn’t known how else to make his father stop crying.

But he hadn’t learned, not really. He hadn’t understood how.

He’s not quite as oblivious as he was as a child, now. He knows not to let strange men follow him. He knows that strangers stand too close because they want to pickpocket him, and that people stumbling and slurring their words are drunk even if you ask them and they say they aren’t. He knows that people don’t always say what they mean, and that people aren’t always kind because they say kind things. He _knows._

But he knows through memorization, through painful experiences that he learned over and over and over until they ingrained themselves in his memory. He never developed the 6th sense other people have, to notice what people do and interpret their intentions. He just has his own life, and lessons he learned throughout it.

A man follows him in the market. He remembers being pulled away by his father, so now he knows to leave himself.

A stranger makes conversation and stands very close. He remembers having money stolen from his pocket the last time this happened, so he knows to hold his coin purse closed and step back.

A pretty girl starts talking to him and seems friendly, but keeps looking at her friend and laughing. He can’t feel in his bones that she isn’t sincere in her amiability, the way other people seem to be able to. But he can remember this happening before, can remember discovering he was being mocked. So he can use his memories to navigate the situation, can know to walk away before they reveal the joke and make fun of him for crying.

He matches behaviors to memories like he’s making pairs in a card game. He interprets people’s mannerisms by comparing them to situations he’s been in before.

It’s a manual method, and is not as accurate as the magic through which other people seem to just _understand._ He’ll never know how many girls really weren’t making fun of him. He’ll never know how many pickpockets he’s avoided versus how many strangers he’s left confused.

But it’s the best he can do, and it serves him well enough that he’s made it through life alive so far. In the social world that everyone else seems to have memorized, he navigates with a map.

Being around Dean makes him feel like he has wandered into uncharted territory.

The boy unsettles him like no one else ever has. He’s never felt so quickly and so deeply that something is _wrong,_ just through the way a person behaves.

Like this morning. He’d expected Dean to be timid at breakfast, had expected him to be afraid, even. After what he’d seen of the boy’s body, Cas knows that the boy’s fear certainly wasn’t unfounded.

But the boy hadn’t behaved like he was afraid. Or, he had, but that hadn’t been the primary emotion that had radiated off his expressive body in waves.

It hadn’t been fear that had overwhelmed that interaction, but wonder. He’d looked at the bread like it was something he’d never seen before, had looked at Cas like he was some kind of angel. He’d touched the corse food like it was a relic, careful and amazed and reverent.

He’d pressed the bread to his lips and held it there, had closed his eyes like he was telling it a secret. It was at that point that Cas had felt the need to look away, heart in a knot and breath caught in his chest. Watching him felt like he was spying on something personal. Like prayer, or something close to it.

It had left him off balance, that breakfast, had left him startled and shaken like he’d seen something frightening. It felt, in some way, like maybe he had.

Cas doesn’t want to know what could lead a person to behave like that. He doesn’t want to understand what Dean had been feeling.

He could not have predicted the way Dean had reacted, and though it leaves him feeling unsettled, in a way he is grateful. He is grateful that he doesn’t have any memories so miserable that he can compare Dean’s mannerisms and understand what he is doing.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to. But he does wish he had a map to understand Dean, like the map he uses for everyone else.

He doesn’t like being so lost. He doesn’t know how to stop frightening the boy, or how to stop being frightened by him.

*****

He sets the boy up in the kitchen, and leaves him to the same work he’d done last night, of washing dishes. That, at least, Cas knows he can do, knows that he wont be making more work for himself later by leaving Dean to do it now.

Breakfast is served in a rush, like it always is, with thirty people crowding around the counter demanding porridge and bread and ale, with thirty people spilling food and drink on the tables which he quickly has to clean. People wave him down for more ale, and more porridge, and and argue with him over the price and try to underpay while he’s distracted. He counts coin with one hand while refilling a cup with the other, rekindles the fire while giving leaving customers directions to town, tries to placate an irritated man who wants Cas to ambiguously “do something” about a baby that’s crying in its mothers arms.

In between it all he makes his way back and forth into the kitchen, dropping more dirty dishes in the wash bin and refilling clean bowls to bring back out and serve. He has little energy to spare for the boy washing the dishes, and says barely a word to him throughout the morning.

By the time the breakfast rush is over, Cas is exhausted, and he already wants to climb back into bed and fall asleep.

He can’t, though, he can’t, because there is always more work to do. No matter that his feet already hurt from running around, that his arms are already tired from milking and baking and carrying and scrubbing. No matter that it’s only ten and he’s already been working for six hours straight. He has at least another twelve to go before the day is done.

The bench he collapses on when he stumbles back to the kitchen is the same one he’d eaten breakfast at. It creeks when he sits on it, as unstable and exhausted from overuse as he is.

Cas puts his head in his hands.

His hands tremble, as does his lip, and he bites it to keep it still.

He feels like crying, like he does every morning after the breakfast rush, ears ringing with people yelling at him and senses shaking with oversaturation. He has so much more work to do, has so many hours ahead of him before he gets to curl up in his quiet bed. It’s this more than anything that makes him want to cry, and this more than anything that stops him from giving in.

He doesn’t have _time,_ he doesn’t have the _time_ to start crying right now. There’s too much to do, so much to do before lunch, he has to cook the stew, and before that has to feed the guests' horses and deliver fresh laundry and collect dirty laundry to get started on and has to do all the damn dishes before he can do any of _that-_

The dishes.

The boy.

Cas opens his eyes from where he’s shut them, and blinks the wetness away without acknowledging that it’s there. He looks up, dropping his hands to his lap.

The dishes are about half done. The boy is nowhere to be found.

Cas feels the muscles in his chest clench in panic.

_He’s run off,_ Cas thinks, and it must be true.

And Cas can’t blame him, he’s a runaway and Cas knows too much about him now, and he doesn’t really care if the boy does the dishes but _fuck,_ Cas had wanted to give him his father’s boots and jacket because _fuck,_ it’s still so cold out, and he’d been planning on asking the boy if he wants to stay for lunch and if only he’d been paying _attention_ while coming back and forth to the kitchen maybe he could have stopped him maybe he could have given him the coat, the boots, he has no shoes, he has no _shoes,_

The back door swings shut. Cas jumps up from where he’s sitting.

“Dean!” He says, much too loudly.

Dean flinches violently, and drops the bucket he’d been carrying.

“Fuck,” Dean says, but the bucket doesn’t tip over, just lands on the floor right-side up with a heavy _thud._

Water sloshes around in the bucket, and a slight wave spills over the edge.

“Dean, where were you?” Cas says without thinking, though the evidence of where Dean was is right in front of them both.

Dean takes a step back at the tone of his voice, which is still frantic, and ends up pressed against the door he’d just come in from.

He looks at the floor, shoulders tight and raised to his ears.

“I. I just. I’m sorry. I, the water, the well, the water was dirty, I thought, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The boy has curled into himself as much as possible without kneeling. He’s hugging his waist again, which Cas is starting to recognize is a nervous habit of his.

“Did you go outside without shoes on?” Cas asks, alarmed, though once again the evidence is obvious in the form of Dean’s clearly bare feet. “There’s snow out there, Dean!”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says again, quieter. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s apologizing for, but he seems completely sincere all the same.

It’s a painful thing to listen too.

Cas runs his hand through his hair, trying to get his heartbeat under control.

Dean is frightened, he’s obviously frightened. It’s Cas that he’s frightened of.

While he hasn’t been shouting, he’s been speaking with too much energy in his voice to be considered anywhere near calm.

_Pull yourself together,_ he thinks, and he tries to, tries to relax.

It’s fine. Dean’s fine. He’s here, he hasn’t run off, Cas can still offer him more food, can still give him the boots and the coat.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

“I thought you ran off,” Cas admits. He means it as a sort of apology, or explanation for his overreaction. But Dean takes it as the accusation Cas belatedly realizes it seems like.

He looks up again, eyes wide and earnest.

“No, _no,_ Sir, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t run away. I can be good, I promise, you’ve been so good to me, I wouldn’t betray your trust, Sir, I swear it.”

He speaks with such intensity, like he is making a sacred oath to protect a kingdom rather than discussing finishing the dishes. It makes Cas uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such ardent words, and he looks away, unsure of how to respond.

“I just. I only meant that. I was going to ask if you want to stay for lunch.”

Dean looks up nervously in surprise, then down again. His arms seem to tighten around his middle, then relax again.

“O-oh,” he mumbles.

“Um.” Cas stutters. “I mean. You’d have to. You know. Work, I guess, still. Help me cut up some vegetables and such. But. I thought I’d extend the invitation.”

Dean, still keeping his head down, nods quickly. “I’ll work, Sir, I’ll work, thank you, please, I, I’m sorry I’m not finished with the dishes, I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”

“What? No, it’s ok, Dean you’re doing fine with the dishes. I didn’t expect you to be finished, there are so many. Did you- Oh, did you bring the water in from the well because the old water got dirty?” Cas asks, only now processing what Dean had said about why he’d gone outside.

Dean nods tentatively in confirmation.

“Thank you, Dean, that was good thinking.”

It was good thinking, and not something Cas would have thought Dean would have had the presence of mind or will to do on his own without being told, as timid as he is.

“Here, let me carry that over for you, it’s heavy,”

“Sir-” Dean starts anxiously, but cuts himself off from whatever he had been about to say as Cas hauls up the bucket and moves over towards the washbin. Dean follows him quietly.

Cas sees when he reaches the washbin that Dean had already rid it of the old water, so all he has to do is dump the new water into the bin from the bucket.

“There we go,” Cas says after it splashes into place. He drops the now empty bucket by his foot. “All clean now.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean says. He’s looking at Cas with a slightly surprised expression on his face, like he hadn’t really expected that Cas would help him.

That hurts Cas’s heart to consider.

“Of course, Dean,” he tells him sincerely. “Thank _you_ for all your help. I really appreciate it. I usually spend at least an hour and a half doing the dishes after breakfast, and I really don’t have the time. With you doing them, I guess I can get started on folding the laundry instead.”

“I folded the laundry,” Dean says.

Cas blinks.

“What?”

“I…” Dean shifts. He had spoken without hesitation the first time, but now is starting to look anxious, like it is dawning on him that he might have done something wrong.

He drops his eyes, like he thinks he’s in trouble.

“I folded the laundry, Sir.” He speaks much quieter this time, tense like a bowstring.

Nonetheless, he points to the corner of the room where the laundry had been piled, like a guilty man pointing to the scene of the crime.

Cas looks to where he’s being directed, and sees what he hadn’t noticed earlier. That the huge pile of crumpled sheets and clothing has been transformed into neat, _folded,_ stacks.

“I. Before the dishes came in. At the beginning, before people were finished eating. Before. I. I wanted to be useful. I was just waiting, and I wanted to be useful. I’m sorry. I thought it would help. I’m sorry.”

“It does help,” Cas says quietly, feeling stunned. “It. No, Dean, thank you, that helps a lot.”

It does. It helps _so much,_ and Cas starts to feel like some of the pressure weighing on his shoulders is receding.

It takes him so much time to fold the laundry, so much time to do the dishes, time he needs to be spending elsewhere doing other chores, time that he _used_ to spend elsewhere doing other chores. Back when his father had been alive, and it had been two sets of hands keeping this place running instead of just one.

He’d almost forgotten how much better it is. He’d almost forgotten how unbearable and unsustainable it is to live the way he does now, which he toils through because he has no other choice.

It’s nice to be reminded, for a day, a morning, how it was, how much more manageable this is with two people. It’s work, yes, and hard work. But not so much that he bursts into tears from stress multiple times a day, not so much that it is impossible to fit it all in in the hours god has given them from morning to night.

He’ll be able to feed the horses on time today. He’ll be able to get people their laundry before they get mad at him for having to wait.

Hell, if Dean is staying for lunch, preparing the stew might even be enjoyable, work warm and calming rather than frantic and overwhelmed.

That would be nice.

He looks back to Dean, who’s still cringing like he expects to be hit.

He’s a skittish little thing, malnourished and skinny, but he hasn’t so far turned out to be the burden Cas had feared last night at all. In fact, he’s been helpful, very helpful, even going so far to take the initiative to fold laundry and change out the dirty water on his own without Cas having to ask him to.

The boy blinks his pretty green eyes at him, still wary.

_You’re not as broken as you seem, are you, Dean?_

No, he’s not. There’s more grit inside him than Cas had expected.

Grit like that goes far in a place like this.

Cas makes a decision.

“Dean, would you like to stay the night again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm perhaps Cas is finally noticing that this arrangement is not just to Dean's benefit lol...
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took a while, I couldn't get the momentum on it for a few days. I have a couple awkwardly written pages that I scrapped lol.
> 
> To those who are anxious about Cas actually asking Dean to stay for good, we are getting there! It's been 9 chapters in our world but less than a full day for them, lol, we are moving very slow through the fic lol. Cas still doesn't know Dean quite well enough to extend a permanent offer, buuut we are getting there pretty soon ;)
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave kudos and a comment!
> 
> As always, you can come talk to me on tumblr at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/


	10. Chapter 10

After lunch, Cas tells him he’s going to take him to the ice house.

Dean doesn’t know what an ice house is, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. It sounds cold, and it sounds like somewhere he might be sent if he were in trouble.

He wonders if he’s in trouble, as they get ready to go to the ice house. Dean wonders if the ice house is dark as well as cold, and if Cas is going to lock him in and leave him there.

He doesn’t want Cas to lock him in and leave him there. He doesn’t want to be in trouble. He doesn’t want to go to the ice house.

Dean knows he doesn’t get a say though, so he doesn’t protest, or ask what the ice house is, or what he did wrong. He just nods when Cas tells him, and fetches the baskets Cas asks him to fetch, without knowing what they are for.

Cas is kind though, kind like Sam, so he’s gentle to Dean even if he’s in trouble. Cas makes him put on a pair of woolen leggings before they go outside, and then a large fur coat that’s much to big for him and boots that are too big as well.

“Why?” Dean asks, baffled. He’s never worn a coat before, or boots. He can’t fathom why he’s being told to wear them now, especially if he’s being punished.

Cas looks at him sternly. “You must never go outside in the winter without a coat or boots on. You could get frostbite.”

Dean nods at the warning, like he understands.

He knows he could get frostbite. He’s gotten it before, more than once, has almost lost fingers and toes because of it. That never made much of a difference in regards to how John dressed him, or how he was punished. If he couldn’t tempt a client that night, he was sent outside to sleep, regardless of the weather. If it was cold, it was cold. If he froze, he froze. He should have worked harder to seduce a client into letting him into his bed. That’s what John always said, at least.

But Cas is different than John. He already knows that. Maybe he’s different in this way too. He’s treated Dean gently all evening and all morning. Maybe he punishes gentle too, and wants to make sure Dean doesn’t get frostbite.

Maybe he isn’t being punished at all.

Maybe.

Dean doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but it’s hard, especially when Cas leans close to him to help him tie the coat shut, especially when he grabs the coat’s collar and tugs it upward so Dean is snuggled in up to his nose, especially when he takes Dean’s hands in his own to help him put on fur lined mittens.

Face pink, Dean ducks his head. He’s used to being manhandled, but not so carefully, not with such kind intent. He’s used to letting his body be pushed around, but isn’t used to not being hurt while it happens.

It’s nice to be cared for. It makes him blush.

“Alright,” Cas says, dropping his now mitten-covered hand. “That should be good.”

He nods, satisfied with his work, stepping back.

Dean misses his closeness, misses his warmth.

“Thank you, Sir,” he says quietly.

Cas doesn’t smile, but he does nod solemnly. 

“Of course, Dean,” he says, and then gestures to Dean to follow him.

Dean does, trailing after him, still carrying the empty baskets.

Cas pushes the back door open, and Dean follows him out of it, wincing at the brightness of the snow covered landscape. It’s so different from yesterday, where wind had been whipping through the trees and the sky had been grey with mounting storm clouds.

Now, the sky is blue and clear, sun high in the sky and shining bright like happiness.

It seems impossible that the sky can be so sunny and the air still so cold. Dean can see his own breath in front of his face as he steps outside, and he pushes his face deeper into the warm coat he’s been wrapped in.

He curls his toes inside his boots, anticipating the frozen feeling of ice on bare skin as he steps into the snow.

The cold doesn’t come, though, and he looks down at his covered feet in amazement.

It’s almost surreal, he thinks, to stand in the snow and not feel his feet going numb. He’s never worn shoes before, much less boots like these. He wiggles his toes again, this time intentionally, wondering at the soft feel of the inside lining and the complete lack of cold against his skin.

“Dean?” He hears, and his head snaps up.

Cas is standing a bit of a ways ahead of him, looking back at him with his brow furrowed.

 _Shit,_ Dean thinks, and he rushes to catch up to the other boy.

“Sorry,” he says anxiously.

Cas just tilts his head, squinting at him like he is a puzzle that he can’t quite figure out.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

Dean nods quickly.

“Yes, Sir.” He mutters. He looks down at the shoes, then up again. “The boots are warm, Sir.”

He isn’t sure why he says it, but he doesn’t regret it, not when Cas’s face morphs to show a gentle surprise, and then, finally, a small smile.

“I’m glad, Dean,” he says. And he sounds like he really is glad.

He marches onward, then, and Dean follows him, making sure not to get left behind again.

Something feels mellowed inside of him, though, soothed by the echo of Cas’s smile.

He seemed happy that Dean was warm.

It makes Dean hopeful, that even if he is going to be left in the ice house, that at least he will be left with the warm clothes he is wearing.

It won’t be so bad then, maybe. He hopes.

It takes them about twenty minutes to walk to the ice house, twenty minutes that are spent in silence after the conversation about the boots.

It’s not quite uncomfortable, but not quite comfortable either, not with Dean’s mounting anxiety about what the ice house is and why they are heading towards it.

He tries to hold on to the feeling Cas’s smile had given him for as long as possible, but it fades like a frightened voice the longer they march on in silence.

The snow makes the ground brighter, and the world quieter, muffling the sounds that would usually echo through the open field and forest. The sound of his boots crunching into the snow seem louder because of the background of quiet, and Dean doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like making noise. Making noise means drawing attention to himself. Drawing attention to himself means people hurting him.

He’s safest when he’s invisible.

He’s not invisible right now, and it’s scaring him. Alone with the innkeeper, he feels the boy’s attention on him like it is a physical thing, though the boy doesn’t look back at him or say anything.

Dean wishes he would say something. He wishes he would say something in that nice low voice, something about what the ice house is or why Dean is being brought to it.

He’s said so many kind things to Dean already, like _“That’s a pretty name,”_ and _“You can eat it, Dean,”_ and _“Don’t cry, Dean, I’ll help you.”_

Dean wants him to say another kind thing, say his name again like it matters. He wants Cas to say _“You’re not in trouble, Dean,”_ or _“I won’t leave you in the ice house,”_ or _“You worked hard and don’t deserve to be left in the snow, Dean.”_

But that’s not true, is it? No, it’s not true. He’d been slow on the dishes and slow on helping with the stew and had slept in in the morning. At lunch, Cas had put food in front of him and he’d eaten it. He’d thought it was ok, because it was ok in the morning. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to eat it, and now he’s in trouble.

Maybe.

He doesn’t know.

Eventually, Cas says “Here we are,” and Dean looks up from where he’s had his head ducked.

The ice house doesn’t look like anything particularly scary.

It looks like a small thin wooden house, with nothing strange about it except that it’s straddling a frozen stream.

Cas walks up to it, stepping out onto the ice to reach the door.

Involuntarily, Dean makes an alarmed noise as Cas lets the ice bear all of his weight.

Sam had fallen into a frozen lake once after thinking it was stable. Dean had had to go in after him to save him. The both of them had almost drowned.

But the river doesn’t crack beneath Cas’s feet like it had under Sam’s.

Cas is looking at him now, having heard Dean’s half-shout of fear.

“It’s alright, Dean,” he says kindly, correctly guessing what Dean was worried about. “The river’s been frozen for weeks. It’s perfectly safe.”

He smiles again, which Dean likes, and reaches his hand out towards him.

It takes Dean a moment to realize he’s meant to take it.

When he does, Cas’s fur covered fingers close around his own, clutching him tight. It makes Dean feel safe, like if he were to slip, Cas would keep him from falling.

He likes feeling like that. He likes holding Cas’s hand.

“Thank you,” Dean says.

“I’ve got you,” Cas says back, and for some reason it makes Dean blush.

He shuffles forward, towards Cas, taking careful steps so he doesn’t fall on the ice.

As he gets closer, Cas reaches his other arm out to pull him in, and then before he knows it he’s tucked against Cas’s fur covered chest, with an arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping him steady.

His own mitten covered hands come up to grip Cas’s coat of their own volition.

Cas doesn’t slap them away, or yell at Dean for being clingy.

Instead he says, “I got you,” again, and a lump forms in Dean’s throat.

Cas’s form is solid and unmovable. He’s not a tall or large boy, but pressed against him now Dean realizes that a lifetime of work has made him strong.

It feels strange, to be held like this. To be held by someone strong and to not be afraid.

John was strong, and so were most of the men who fucked him. They used that strength to push him around though, to hurt him, not to hold him against their warm chests, making sure he doesn’t fall.

The only one who ever held him kindly was Sam. And it felt nice, it felt so good to be touched without malice or lust, but it never made him feel safe. Sam never hurt him, but he couldn’t protect him either. He was just a kid, and it was Dean doing the protecting.

It’s an odd feeling, to have the script flipped, to feel protected for once instead.

It’s a nice feeling.

Dean didn’t think he’d feel protected, when they got to the ice house.

He huffs out a cloudy breath, and tries to convince himself that the wetness in his eyes is from the sharp air, not any internal emotions.

Cas isn’t going to punish him.

He feels sure of it, suddenly, certain like he’s certain that it’s cold. He still doesn’t know what the ice house is, or why they’re here, but it’s not because he’s going to be locked in it. He knows it. He’s safe, right now.

Cas wouldn’t have wrapped him in warm clothes and asked if he was alright, and wouldn’t have held his hand out and wouldn’t be holding him now, and he wouldn’t have said “I got you,” like a promise or an oath. He wouldn’t have done any of that if he was going to punish Dean by locking him in this structure.

Cas uses the hand that’s not wrapped around Dean’s shoulders to fish a large metal key out of his coat pocket. He unlocks the wooden door in front of them, and it swings open.

Dean blinks, looking into the little building.

It’s small and dark and cold, like he had feared, but those things don’t feel so scary while he’s tucked in next to Cas. It’s not so scary, if he’s not gonna have to stay in here alone.

Cas moves them forward, and Dean shuffles in with him easily. They enter the little structure, and Dean’s eyes adjust to the dim light.

It’s a wooden room that they’re standing in, with only enough space in it for a few people to cram themselves into it. It’s closer to a closet than a room really, but it’s filled with shelves, from floor to ceiling. And from floor to ceiling, those shelves are filled with food. Frozen meats and cooled cheeses, root vegetables like turnips and carrots and potatoes. Dean’s eyes feel like they are popping out of his skull. He’s never seen so much food in one place in his entire life.

Gently, he feels one of the baskets being pried from his grip, and he lets go of it, so that now both he and Cas are holding one each.

“I’ll get the meats and a few other things. Could you get the turnips and potatoes? Just fill the basket halfway with each. We’ll use them for next week’s meals.”

Dean tears his eyes away from where they had still been gazing up in wonder. He looks down again, like he’s supposed to do.

“Yes, Sir,” he says, but he’s distracted by the flooring under his feet.

Because it’s not a floor at all. They are still standing on the ice, the river running directly under the little room. The walls have been anchored to the ground on either side of the river, but directly under the food there is nothing but the frozen stream.

 _Oh,_ Dean thinks. _That’s why it’s called the ice house._

“Why is there no floor, Sir?”

He asks before he can think better of it, but Cas doesn’t get mad at him.

He looks to Dean in puzzlement. “The ice keeps the food cool, so it lasts much longer. Did your inn not have an ice house?”

Dean doesn’t think John would be too pleased with anyone referring to the tavern as “Dean’s inn,” but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“No, Sir. That inn was in the city. I was sent to market every week to get food. We didn’t have anything like this.”

“Oh. Well that makes sense, then. I suppose you didn’t have any animals, either?”

He looks at Dean questioningly, and Dean nods in affirmation.

“We- Or. I, now. I have a cow and eight chickens. Maybe you’ll meet them tomorrow morning?”

His voice goes up at the end, as if he’s asking a question, or Dean’s permission.

His permission.

What a concept.

“I’d like that,” Dean says shyly.

He would. He’s never seen a cow before, or a live chicken. John’s inn was in the slums of the city, and the only animals around were rats, fighting dogs, and sometimes a stray cat that Sam would try to feed and John would eventually kill when he found it.

That always made Sam cry.

Sam liked animals. He was nice to them.

He’d like to see a cow and chicken too.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the handle of his basket.

 _Stop it,_ he thinks. _Stop thinking about Sam._

There’s no point. It will just start him crying again, like he was all the time in those first few days after John tossed him out.

And what good did that get him? What good would it get him now? Cas would just think he’s crazy, and make him leave before tomorrow morning.

He doesn’t want to leave before tomorrow morning. He wants to stay the night again, like Cas said he could.

He forces his focus back to the task at hand, the task that Cas had given him that he hasn’t even started. He starts piling potatoes and heavy purple and yellow turnips into his basket.

 _They’re pretty,_ he thinks, and they are. Most of the food at John’s inn just turned into some shade of grey. The food here is colorful, though. Nice to look at as well as just eat.

It doesn’t take the two of them long to finish the task they came for, and they head back then, lugging the two filled baskets along.

Cas offers to carry them both, for some reason.

“What? No,” Dean says, before he can think better of it.

He almost drops the whole basket after he registers what had just come out of his mouth.

He’s not allowed to say no.

He’s not allowed to say no.

But Cas doesn’t get mad at him. Not even a little.

He just shrugs, and says, “Let me know if your arms get too tired.”

And then he’s off, walking back to the inn, leaving Dean to stare in shock for a few moments before frantically running forward to keep up.

***

Dean likes the walk back from the ice house better than he liked the walk to it. He knows what the ice house is, now, and that it’s not scary. Or, well, it could be, if he was locked in it. But he wasn’t. It seemed like such an idea hadn’t even crossed Cas’s mind.

Cas seems less scary than he had on the way to the ice house too.

 _He’s just quiet,_ Dean tells himself. Quiet, and kind of strange, and not good at explaining what’s going on or noticing when Dean is nervous.

But none of that makes him scary.

Dean has to remember that. He has to try to remember, that just because Cas is being quiet doesn’t mean he’s mad.

The boy talks just as little on the way back as he had on the way there, which is to say not at all. But he starts whistling after a few minutes, pleasant and bright, and the birds chirp back at him in a happy duet. And Dean thinks maybe it won’t be so hard to remember that Cas is nice after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyper-specific knowledge of medieval food preservation techniques? In MY fic?? It's more likely than u think!
> 
> Also Dean's getting a cruuuush!! I'm having a lot of fun writing them as blushy teens with awkward crushes on each other lol.
> 
> As always you can come talk to me at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :) I just realized yesterday I had my asks turned off this whole time!!! I'm so stupid. But they're on now :)
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed :)


	11. Chapter 11

The day goes smoother with Dean around.

There’s still a lot to do, but it goes faster with company, and goes more pleasantly as well. The chores keep coming, but Cas feels less like he is just barely keeping up with the demands of the day, less like an avalanche is bearing down on him at every moment, and like stopping for even a few seconds will let it overtake him.

He’s able to get around to chores that he’s been putting off, ones that are necessary but not as urgent. He mends the tears in the inn’s sheets and tablecloths and fixes a bench that had been broken by a drunk patron. After serving dinner, he leaves Dean with the dishes again, and makes his way to his neglected garden to begin the long process of tearing out the weeds.

He used to tend to it meticulously, but since his father passed he’s barely had the time to harvest the cabbages and beets every now and then, much less take the time to dig out the weeds that creep in.

It’s not a fun job to do in the winter, especially after dinner when the sun has already set. His hands freeze and muscles ache with the effort of stabbing the spade into the hard frozen ground, but he persists for hours, wanting to get it over with while he has another set of hands doing the dishes.

Dean comes outside a few times while he’s working, going to the well to fetch clean water like he had in the morning.

Cas pauses in his work and waves at him each time.

The first time he does so, Dean tenses, looking back at Cas with fright on his face before grabbing the bucket and scampering back inside as fast as he can.

He comes out to the well again, though, about a half an hour later, and once again Cas waves. Dean freezes again, and seems to curl into the oversized coat Cas had given him. But he waves back, this time, tentative and nervous, yet less quick to hurry away than he had been.

Cas counts it as a win.

****

Dean needs a bath. He’s needed one for a while, since probably long before he stepped in Cas’s door, is filthy with dirt and sweat and blood on his back and legs. Cas hadn’t had the time or energy to deal with it last night, and certainly hadn’t had the time or energy today while running the inn.

He doesn’t really have the time or energy right now either, to be honest, but it wouldn’t be right to once again deny Dean the chance to get clean. So he makes his way to the back storage closet once he finishes his weeding, and after putting his gardening tools away lugs out the large wooden tub he uses to bathe.

He drags it around the corner towards the back door, then into the house, and drops it by the fireplace.

“Dean,” he calls out, “Would you help me- oh.”

Dean isn’t by the washbin like Cas had expected. The dishes are finished, dried and stacked neatly.

Cas looks around, but Dean is no where to be found in the kitchen. The worry that the boy might have run off again pricks at him, but the earnest promise he’d received not to “betray his trust” makes that seem unlikely.

Moving towards the kitchen door, he opens it, and pokes his head into the main dining area of the tavern.

It’s empty but for a few sleepy stragglers sitting by the fire, and, sure enough, Dean. He’s farther away, standing between the tables, and is sweeping the remnants of the evening’s dinner off the floor.

Cas feels a pulse of fondness burst through his heart.

It seems every time he turns around, Dean has found some left over chore to finish, some new way to make himself useful.

As he watches, a burly patron who’d been still siting in the corner, drinking alone, stands. He passes Dean on his way towards the stairs, and the boy skitters far out of his way, frightened.

It makes Cas sad to see, but at the same time, he feels the fondness in his chest grow stronger.

What a brave and kind-hearted young man he is, to be so determined to be helpful that he would risk being around the strangers he so clearly fears.

“Dean!” He calls out, and the boy jumps about a foot in the air, spinning around to see Cas standing in the doorway.

As when Cas saw the folded laundry and waved at him getting water, the boy looks at him like he’s been caught committing a crime.

Cas doesn’t know how to reassure him, other than by continuing to behave like nothing is wrong, which it isn’t.

He gestures to Dean to come to him, which the boy does, dragging the broom along besides him.

“Sir,” he states shortly upon reaching Cas’s side. He sort of bows a little in acknowledgement, which makes Cas uncomfortable.

“Um. You don’t have to. Um. I was hoping you could help be bring water in from the well, for a bath.”

“Of course, Sir,” he agrees quickly.

And he does help, as much as he can, helping Cas drag in the buckets of water from outside, helping him heat them over the fire before pouring each batch of warm water into the tub.

It’s an elaborate process, one Cas often has to go through for travel weary guests, but that he rarely ever bothers going through for himself. Even in winter, the long process of fetching and heating the water doesn’t feel worth it. He usually just drags a bucket or two’s worth of cold water in to dump in the tub, and contents himself to wash standing, scrubbing himself down quickly to minimize the cold. It’s unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as losing another hour and a half of sleep because he wanted to play at luxury.

Dean needs a bath, though. And Cas doesn’t have the heart to make him wash in the freezing water, doesn’t have the confidence in the boy’s health to believe that he wouldn’t catch a cold and die.

So through the whole process they go, and even with Dean’s help it takes almost an hour to make the bath. Cas watches the time Dean had helped him save today evaporate like the steam coming off the heated water.

Chores had gone so much faster with Dean around. He’d thought maybe he might be able to go to sleep a bit earlier today, around the time he used to with his father. But it is close to 10 by the time the bath is ready, and he still has to help Dean wash and change his bandages, and then finish the cleaning in the dining room that Dean had started.

Exhaustion rushes through him at the hours of work he has still ahead of him, and his eyes seem to get caught on the light ripples vibrating through the water of the bath.

He’s so tired. He’s been working for so long.

 _Eighteen hours,_ his mind supplies, having kept track against his will.

It’s no more than average, he tries to tell himself, no more than any other day he’s worked since his father passed.

His exhaustion does not compromise and diminish just because he is trying to reason with it.

He shuts his eyes.

Perhaps Dean will be willing to continue the work from earlier and will help him clean the dining room. Then perhaps they might finish before midnight, and Cas could get more than four hours of sleep.

But what is he thinking. Of course Dean will be “willing” to help, if Cas demands it of him. The real question is, is it right to ask him to do even more work in exchange for nothing more than a rug to sleep on, just because Cas is tired?

He opens his eyes and glances over at the boy, who’s now kneeling next to the tub, patient and silent.

Cas knows the answer to his question. He also knows that he may give in and ask for help anyway, if it gets too late, if his body takes over his mind as the night inches on.

He has to bathe Dean and get him to bed before that happens, before his exhaustion breaks him, or he’ll end up no better than those who’ve clearly abused the poor thing, taking advantage of his compliance for his own convenience and leaving the hard work to someone who doesn’t have the power to say no.

_Fuck._

He can’t let that happen.

He pinches himself, hard, trying to force himself to wake up.

“Alright, Dean,” he says, trying not to sound miserable. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The boy just blinks at him, hands twisting together. He doesn’t move.

Fuck.

Cas doesn’t know what the problem is now, he never knows what the problem is, but he’s _tired,_ he’s tired and he just wants Dean to bathe so he can move on to his work and finally, _finally_ go to bed.

Frustration born from his enormous fatigue overwhelms his usual patience, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping.

_Just get in the bath, Dean, please, **please** just get in the bath._

He breathes, forcing himself to speak calmly, knowing the boy would probably have a heart attack and die if Cas expressed the slightest hint of displeasure.

“You must want to get clean?” He asks.

It’s the politest way he can think to say that the boy is covered in dirt and blood and needs a bath like Cas needs rest.

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it. He looks to Cas, then the tub, then the floor, then Cas again.

He takes a long time to think about whatever it is he needs to say, and Cas tries not to rush him, tries not to think about how every second they sit here is another second he’ll have to spend working instead of sleeping.

Eventually, finally, the boy speaks.

“This is for me?” He nearly whispers. He sounds scared, and he sounds amazed, like he is balancing on the precipice of hope and doesn’t know if he should let himself fall off.

Cas takes in his anxious face, with his hollow cheeks and wide eyes and split lip. His skin is still discolored from all the places he’s been hit, and Cas is once again overtaken by the knowledge the hand shaped bruises around his throat means someone had really grabbed him around his skinny neck and choked him so hard that it gave him a collar.

It’s sickening. It’s _sickening,_ and all at once Cas hates himself, for being even for an instant frustrated with this boy who’s been so mistreated.

Of _course_ he doesn’t just get in the tub, of _course_ he doesn’t assume it’s been made for him, of fucking _course_ he needs a moment to consider what words he’s going to let come out if his mouth. Cas can’t imagine how frightened he must be, how confusing it must be to be treated with any sense of decency after what he’s been through.

He can’t even imagine how many times he must have been hurt for saying the wrong thing, for assuming he’s allowed to eat or bathe or, fuck, even wear shoes.

Why would he assume any sort of luxury is for him?

He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t.

“Yes, Dean,” Cas tells him kindly, all sense of frustration gone. “It’s for you. You need to wash yourself well, to keep your wounds from getting infected. And I didn’t want you to be cold while doing that.”

Dean stares at him for another moment, and Cas wonders if he hadn’t kept his frustration as hidden as he’d wanted, if his awkwardness had once again let his emotions bleed onto his face, if Dean is afraid now because Cas got frustrated and if he now thinks this is some sort of trick, fuck, _fuck-_

Dean smiles at him.

Cas’s heart lurches in its chest, and slams into something solid.

Dean’s _smiling_ at him.

Oh.

Fuck.

_Oh._

Cas feels himself flush.

It’s the first smile he’s seen from the boy, and it makes the breath catch in Cas’s chest like a butterfly in a net.

 _He’s so beautiful,_ Cas thinks, and it’s true, it’s so true. It isn’t easy to forget, not with the boy’s lovely eyes and perfect nose and pretty pink mouth constantly within his range of sight. No, there hasn’t been a moment all day where Dean has been around and he hasn’t been aware, on some level, of how gorgeous he is.

He’s pushed it away, though, pushed those thoughts aside, and that, unlike forgetting Dean’s beauty, _had_ been easy. At least, it had been easy up until now. Because up until now Dean had only looked at him with fear, with anxiety, with at the very best hesitant trust that he seems braced to have violently destroyed at any moment. And that had made Cas sad, had made him feel guilty, had allowed him to bury any attraction he may feel under self-hatred and shame for noticing the same things the people who left blood on the boy’s thighs must have noticed.

But Dean isn’t looking at him with fear right now. He looks happy, happy to be next to Cas rather than afraid and wanting to flee.

His happiness is bright like a firefly, mesmerizing like religion.

The smile looks like sunshine, and it feels that way in Cas’s chest too. He can already tell his heart is wrapping the smile in straw and tucking it away, to be taken out and perused on darker, sadder days.

 _I did that,_ he thinks, and the thought makes him feel shy.

He looks away, feeling suddenly so overwhelmed with some pleasant feeling that he has to keep his eyes averted to keep it from spilling over. Tension grows in his limbs, and he can feel himself getting weird, getting odd, he wants to start moving his hands around like he isn’t supposed to just to get some of this feeling out.

That scares people, though, will undoubtedly scare Dean, and he doesn’t want to scare Dean, doesn’t want the smile to drop, so he tenses his arm muscles and pushes his hands down against his thighs to get some of the energy under control instead.

When he looks up again, Dean is still smiling, but Cas can handle it better because he’s not looking right at him anymore.

Instead, Dean seems to have almost forgotten he’s there, has turned towards the tub and isn’t concerning himself with Cas at all. He’s stuck his hand in the tub, is moving it around slowly, eyes glued to the water and mouth tilted upwards like the water is telling him something funny. He seems fascinated by the heat, by the ripples, by the steam.

“I’ve never washed in warm water,” he says suddenly, and it almost surprises Cas to be addressed again, so enamored with the way Dean seemed to have forgotten his presence that he’d almost forgotten his own presence as well.

“Oh,” Cas says, uncertain. It’s not really new information to him, not after watching Dean’s reaction to the bath.

“Can I get in?” Dean says. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off the water.

“Of course,” Cas tells him, and all of a sudden the boy is naked, having slid the linen robe off his body in one smooth movement.

Cas almost chokes. He looks away again.

 _He’s a whore,_ Cas reminds himself. _Of course he isn’t body shy._

It makes sense. He’s already seen how quick the boy is to assume that others will take from his body, already seen the evidence of how often that has happened. It makes sense that he’s been left with no sense of modesty. Any reluctance to expose himself had probably been beaten out of him long ago.

It’s still startling, to Cas. It still makes him feel a little bit like he’s going to faint.

He knows what other boys his age get up to. He knows what women look like under their clothes, and what men look like under their clothes, and what the teenagers who sneak out to behind his barn are doing in the middle of the night.

He’s never been involved in such things, though. He’s never really wanted to be, and certainly no one else has wanted him. He’s shy, he’s weird, he’s not used to even talking to people his age for more than a few minutes.

He’s not used to being around someone he finds attractive. He’s certainly not used to them taking their clothes off without warning.

Damn it.

The splash of Dean getting into the tub alerts him to when it’s safe to look up again.

Only the boy’s shoulders and head peek out of the water, but even that feels indecent to look at, especially with the face Dean is making, eyes shut and expression slack with pleasure.

Cas feels himself pinken. He’s not sure if it’s because of the expression on Dean’s face, or because he’s pleased with himself for managing to put it there.

He does’t know which is worse.

When Dean’s eyes blink open moments later, he seems oblivious to Cas’s turmoil, and immune to the awkwardness Cas is feeling. He just smiles again, smaller and shyer than the one before, but just as stunning.

Cas’s mouth feels dry, and it takes him a few tries to be able to speak.

“Your bandages,” he eventually manages to croak out.

Unarticulate, but it’s enough. Dean looks down at his own cloth wrapped chest in surprise.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I forgot I had them on.”

“They need to be changed,” Cas says, starting to regain control of his voice. “Here, I’ll help you.”

He moves around so he is sitting behind Dean outside the tub. Dean seems nervous suddenly, turns his head around quickly to keep Cas in his line of site.

Cas pauses where he has started to reach out his hand, unwilling to touch Dean while he’s scared.

He makes eye contact with the boy, who’s twisted halfway around. He tries to relay his truthfulness when he says, seriously, “It’s alright, Dean. I won’t hurt you.”

Dean maintains eyes contact for a moment longer, frozen. Then he seems to loosen, shoulders dropping along with his gaze. He nods briefly, then turns back around.

Cas unwinds the bandages with his hands, trying to be as gentle as possible. It gets caught at a few points, blood and healing skin having begun to fuse with the cloth, and he has to pull it unstuck. It must hurt, but Dean doesn’t so much as hiss.

When Cas is finished, he sets the bloodied bandages aside to be thrown away later.

“There we go,” he says softly. “I’ll reapply the honey and wrap you with fresh cloth after the bath. We need to make sure your back is cleaned well, though, as are any other open wounds. Do you-”

He stops. Swallows.

_He’ll get an infection if his back isn’t cleaned well._

“Do you. Want me to help you with your back?”

Dean is quiet.

He’s quiet for longer than he should be, and Cas starts to feel a sinking feeling coalesce in his stomach.

“You can touch me however you like, Sir.”

Dean speaks down to the water, without turning around again.

It’s a strange response. 

“I-” he tries. “I don’t want you to get an infection.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean agrees placidly.

Cas hesitates.

He thinks he did something wrong. He said something wrong.

There is something wrong with this interaction, but Cas can’t tell what it is.

So he gives in, because he’s tired, because he doesn’t want Dean to get an infection, because Dean said yes and he can’t imagine what else that could mean.

He wets a rag and lathers it with a bar of homemade soap until it’s overflowing with suds.

“This might sting, a bit,” he warns. “It shouldn’t be too bad. Let me know if you need me to stop, though.”

Dean is tense, at first, stiff, as Cas runs the damp towel over his back. He’s curled himself into a ball, so his back is bared for Cas but his knees are pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and his head ducked. The relaxation from earlier seems to have bled out of him.

Cas doesn’t know if it’s because he did something wrong.

It feels strange to wash Dean’s back, because the texture of his skin is all wrong. It’s uneven and bumpy from the hundreds of scars layered on top of each other, and he can feel the ridges of the healed wounds underneath the damp cloth. It feels the way he imagines plowed ground looks from the sky.

Instinctually, Cas wants to avoid the wounds that are still open, wants to wash around the inflamed and raw injuries. He can’t though, not if he wants to keep Dean safe from sepsis. So he forces himself to run the soapy cloth directly over the wounds, trying to be as gentle as possible.

Like when Cas unwound the bandages, Dean doesn’t make a sound.

It takes a few minutes, but over time Cas becomes aware of Dean’s shoulders dropping, inch by inch, slow as trees grow but just as steady.

The boy lets out a small huff one minute, then a quiet noise in the next.

“Am I hurting you?” Cas asks anxiously when the boy makes yet another sound.

Dean squeezes his legs tighter towards his chest, holding them there for a moment. Then he seems to relax.

“No,” he replies, still not looking at Cas. “You’re not hurting me at all, Sir.”

Cas doesn’t like the note of wonder he hears underneath the boy’s words.

 _Did you think I was going to?_ he wants to ask, but he doesn’t.

By the time Cas is finished cleaning Dean’s back, the boy is limp like ribbon. His head is ducked even lower than it had been, but not because he seems to be intentionally bowing it. Rather, it seems like all the muscles in his neck have gone loose, and his head has fallen forward naturally.

Cas wonders if he’s fallen asleep.

“Dean?” He asks tentatively.

“Mmm?”

Not asleep yet, then.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?”

Dean huffs out a breath.

“Alright,” he says quietly.

The strange undertone that Cas had not been able to identify from his earlier agreement is gone, which settles something inside of Cas.

He’s not sure what he did or said wrong earlier or why Dean seemed to have become stressed all of a sudden, but whatever it was, Cas seems to have managed to undo the damage.

He rubs the soap until he’s created enough of a lather to massage into Dean’s hair.

Dean sighs again, and seems to loosen even further.

Cas feels a smile tugging at his lips, a real one, not one of the many he pastes on in an effort to mimic the behavior of those around him.

It feels nice to have Dean relax under his hands. It makes him feel like he is doing something right, after a day of constantly making missteps and frightening Dean every time he spoke.

He always was better with his hands than with his words. He can do good work with his hands, simple work, can create and help and express kindness through the kind of non verbal language that he understands. One of giving, and providing for others.

It’s why the animals like him, but people rarely do. People always want to talk, and he doesn’t know how. Animals don’t care what he says. They judge his character by how he treats them, how much effort he puts into making them comfortable, how he touches them firmly but gently and never hurts them to get them to do what he wants.

Dean isn’t an animal, though he’s been treated worse than one. And he reacts in fear and confusion when Cas tries to talk to him, just like every other person does.

But. He seems to understand the language Cas speaks as well, and it makes something warm swell inside him.

He has melted under Cas’s hands, has allowed him to show he’s not going to hurt him without words, and Cas feels peaceful at the change.

He likes Dean.

He’s not like Cas. He’s not strange in the same way, isn’t another changeling child in the wrong kind of world. But he seems to have a bilingual heart, and is willing to listen to Cas in his native language, when Cas finds the confidence to speak it.

Cas likes feeling understood.

Because he knows it feels good, and because it’s nearly the only place on Dean’s body that isn’t bruised, Cas pushes his thumbs into the muscles of Dean’s neck and pushes upwards.

Dean lets out a sound that makes Cas blush harder than he had when Dean took his clothes off.

He doesn’t stop, though, does it again, feeling something between pride and protectiveness as Dean continues to make helpless, breathy noises and turns into putty under Cas’s touch.

Cas hadn’t realized how tense the boy had been until he isn’t anymore. He’s watched Dean stiffen in fear on and off all day, but only now with the boy malleable before him does he realize that even the young man’s baseline is a level of anxiety that most people rarely feel.

It makes Cas feel guilty, and so sad, but it also makes him feel sort of shyly good about himself. It feels good, to be able to disarm someone so afraid. It feels nice, to know he was able to do this for Dean, give him a few minutes free from terror.

Eventually he has to stop, has to pour water over Dean’s hair to rinse it, because it is still very late and he still feels his own stress rear it’s head like a hydra when he thinks about the work he still has to do.

He moves back around to Dean’s front and offers him the rag and the bar of soap.

“Dean, can you clean the rest of yourself? I can go fetch you a towel and new clothes while you finish.”

Dean’s brings his head up from its bowed position with all the urgency of a cat lying in the sun. His eyes are half lidded, and he blinks at Cas slowly, like he is waking up from a trance.

That bashful, happy thing inside Cas flickers to life again.

 _I did that,_ he thinks again, like he had about Dean smiling.

He doesn’t know why it means so much to him.

It takes a moment for Dean’s eyes to focus, for him to process what Cas said.

“Oh,” he breathes eventually, looking slightly disoriented. “I. Yes. Yes, of course, Sir, thank you.”

Cas nods at him as he takes the items he’s being offered. Then he leaves Dean to wash in privacy, going upstairs like he said to grab a towel and a change of clothes.

He takes his time, wanting to give Dean the chance to clean himself without Cas hovering around.

He seems to be finished by the time Cas comes back, and holds the soap and cloth out like an offering.

“All done?” Cas asks, and Dean nods.

His cheeks have a rosy quality to them that hadn’t been there before. Cas doesn’t know if it’s from the heat of the bath or from. Well.

From something else.

Cas takes the items Dean is holding, and hands him the towel instead.

He knows now to look away immediately, correctly guessing that Dean will stand, shameless, before Cas has a chance to turn his back.

Cas waits for the movement to still out of the corner of his eye before he looks back, until Dean is covered and staring down at his feet silently.

“Here,” Cas says, offering him the change of clothes. “Dry off by the fire, and then change into these. They’re mine, so they might be a bit big, but it’s all I have, so…”

Out from under Cas’s touch, Dean seems to have gotten nervous again. He nods silently, without raising his head.

Realizing Dean isn’t going to take the clothes from his hands, Cas places them on a stool next to the fire instead.

“Ok, um, I’ll just leave them here. Um. Take your time drying off. I still need to clean the dining room for tomorrow, so. I’ll be in there for a while, if you need anything.”

Dean nods again without looking at him.

Cas nods back, feeling off balance again. Whatever calm they had been lulled into by the fire and the touch is gone, and Cas once again feels awkward and wrong footed.

“Right. Well. Ok.” He shifts, and looks at Dean, feeling like one of them should say something.

They don’t, and Dean just stands silently dripping in front of him.

Goddamn it.

“Well. Goodbye, then,” Cas forces himself to say at last. He leaves then, and cringes at how strange he is on the way out.

*********

He’s out in the dining area for only a few minutes before Dean comes out to find him.

He’s still sweeping, when Dean comes through the door, is still finishing the task the boy had set out to do earlier. The boy had done a good job, but had only managed to get through about half the floor. It’s hard for Cas to think about how much more there still is to do, how even after sweeping and mopping the floor he still has to wipe down the tables and counter.

Alone in the quiet, he’d been reminded of how late it is, how long he’s been awake, and his exhaustion had flown back into him at full force almost as soon as he’d left Dean in the kitchen.

He hadn’t noticed how much Dean’s presence had been holding it back until his limbs turned to jelly again, and his eyelids to heavy stone.

Whatever magic of Dean’s had pushed his need for sleep away before doesn’t arise again, though, as Dean appears, and Cas finds himself staring at the boy with bleary eyes.

The creek of the door echos in the now empty hall as Dean opens it. It’s nearing midnight, now, and and even the stragglers who had still been hanging around before are long gone.

“Dean?” he says, sleepy and confused, pausing in his sweeping.

Dean clutches the door, and leans close to it, like it can protect him. Then, he seems to steel himself, and he lets the door shut and makes his way towards Cas.

Cas watches him as he comes, not daring to say anything. Dean has a look of determination on his face that Cas doesn’t want to break.

The boy keeps walking forward until he is only inches from Cas’s face. Cas’s breath hitches in his lungs.

He’s not looking at the floor anymore, but is looking into Cas’s eyes. Without breaking eye contact, Dean reaches for the broom Cas is holding and takes it in his hand.

Gently, he tugs it out of Cas’s grip.

“Dean?” Cas says again, quieter.

“I can do this,” Dean tells him.

Cas furrows his brow.

He’s so tired. It’s hard to keep up with what’s going on.

“What?”

“I can do this,” Dean says again. He’s broken eye contact and is looking down at the floor, now, is clutching the broom close to his chest with both hands, like it is the only thing grounding him.

His voice is just as strong, though.

“I’ll clean up. You can go to sleep, Sir.”

Sleep.

Cas wants to sleep.

He can feel it creeping up through his blood like poison, steady, inevitable, deadly.

He can’t let it overtake him. He has work to do, still.

“I…what? No, Dean, you sleep. I need. I have work.”

His voice comes out too quiet. He notices this as if from far away.

He reaches out to take the broom back from Dean, but the boy takes a step away, moving out of his reach.

 _What?_

What’s going on. He needs the broom to sweep. He needs to sweep before he can sleep.

He wants to sleep. He wants to _sleep._

He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this, whatever this is, whatever Dean is doing. He needs Dean to give him the broom back so he can finish the work and go to _bed._

 _“Dean,”_ he says, and his frustration bleeds into his voice, his irritation and exhaustion bundled all into one word. He doesn’t mean it to, but it happens anyway, the part of his brain that could stop it having shut down a while ago.

But he’s not so out of it that he doesn’t feel a stab of guilt at the fear that flashes across Dean’s face.

The boy doesn’t give the broom back, though.

“Sir,” he almost whispers. “Please let me. I can do it. Thank you for bathing me. Thank you for feeding me. I can do it. You can go to sleep.”

Cas shuts his eyes, and feels unconsciousness tugging at him so fast that he snaps his eyes open in the same moment.

He wants to go to sleep.

Even whatever part of him has been keeping track of how long he’s been awake has given up. He has no idea how long it’s been.

He feels like this every night.

 _I can’t keep doing this,_ he thinks, with the same certainty that he knows he has no other choice.

Emotion wells up in his throat suddenly, without warning.

He’s going to die if he keeps living like this.

He blinks back at Dean, who still hasn’t given him the broom.

“I…” he mutters. “I’m really tired.”

The words fall out of him without permission. His heart trembles with the pain of hearing himself acknowledge what he never lets himself think about.

“I know, Sir,” Dean says.

“I…” Cas stares back at the boy, like some secret reserve of willpower will manifest between them, and Cas will find the strength to send him to bed.

_You promised yourself you wouldn’t do this. He’s tired too, and he’s hurt. You promised yourself you wouldn’t take advantage of him._

_Tell him no._

_Tell him **no.**_

“I’m really tired,” Cas says again, instead. 

After that, he starts to cry.

The tears spill over before he realizes they’re coming, and he lets them overwhelm him, not even having the energy to wipe them away.

He collapses onto a bench of one of the tables, and puts his head in his hands, sobbing.

_I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this._

“I don’t know how- I can’t- I’m tired, I can’t, _I can’t.”_

He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.

Months of grief that he’s had no time to process are washing through him. Months of exhaustion, of complete despair at the realization that he’s trapped, that he has no one to turn to for help, that he only has days or weeks or years of overwhelming work and work and work ahead of him until he completely collapses and dies like his father.

He’s so, so tired.

“What am I going to do? What am I going to _do?”_

He’s not talking to Dean anymore. He’s not talking to himself either, he doesn’t know who he’s talking to, except maybe his father, his father who’s _dead_ and can’t help him anymore, his father who died and left him alone in a world he doesn’t belong in and with a life he can’t handle by himself.

“Fuck,” he sobs, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck, fuck!”_

His gripping his own hair so hard it hurts, is crying so hard he can barely breathe, is completely lost in his own panic until he feels arms wrap around him suddenly, and he flinches.

Dean.

Oh, god, Dean.

He opens his eyes, and picks his head up from his hands.

Dean is sitting next to him on the bench, hugging him tightly.

Cas forces himself to breathe, to _breathe,_ until he can form words longer than a syllable again.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says, breath hitching. “Fuck, I’m sorry Dean. I didn’t-” he hiccups. “I didn’t mean to cry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

His voice sounds wet and wobbly. Another sob pushes its way out of his throat, despite his best efforts to keep it inside.

He tries to turn his head away from Dean, embarrassed.

Dean doesn’t let him. With a boldness Cas hadn’t known Dean possessed, Dean catches his chin with his fingers, and turns Cas’s face back towards him.

“You’re not scaring me, Sir,” he says solemnly.

It’s not completely true, it can’t be. Dean looks alarmed, looks like he definitely hadn’t expected Cas to burst into tears at the suggestion that he go to bed.

But he doesn’t look terrified, as Cas would have expected. He’s not cowering in fear, and flinching like he expects Cas to beat him.

Cas blinks at him, breath unsteady. He doesn’t know what to say.

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then bites his lip. Then he reaches out, and starts wiping the tears off Cas’s face with the long sleeve of the tunic Cas had given him.

It feels nice. The cloth is soft on Cas’s skin, and Dean is gentle in how he touches him. The boy doesn’t take his eyes off his face the whole time he works, brow furrowed, and expression serious.

Not sure what else to do, Cas sits there passively, and lets Dean wipe at the tears until there aren’t anymore coming.

Then Dean hugs him again, and Cas lets him.

They sit there without speaking for a long time, letting the fire flicker lower and lower and lower, until at last it is gone.

They sit there until Cas’s breath has calmed, until the warmth of Dean’s body seems to become part of his own.

They sit there until the panic gets bored of them and leaves the room, and only then does Cas finally, finally, _finally_ go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why this chapter is so long that was not intentional. Considered breaking it up but it felt better as one. Don't get used to this length lol this was a fluke.
> 
> So far it seems like "warmth" and "exhaustion" are the main themes of this fic lol. Poor kids!! They need to figure out that they need to work together!!
> 
> Please leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed. As always, you can come talk to me at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT: I posted a little one shot thing (The Road) separately for this series to tide y'all over bc I have been busy, just to let y'all know :)


	12. Chapter 12

In the morning, Dean wakes up feeling like maybe Cas likes him, and maybe, if he is good, he might be allowed to stay.

It’s a terrifying thought, almost sacrilegious in its impertinence, almost world ending in its unfounded hope, and he shies away from it in the nighttime like sinners shy away from redemption.

Such thoughts are not for him to think. Such kindness is not for him to have.

He doesn’t even let himself get angry at himself as he finishes cleaning the dining room, because getting angry at himself would require acknowledging that the treasonous thought had been had.

The thought. The _thought._

_I could be wanted here._

No.

Dean keeps his mind blank as he finishes his chores and heads to bed, keeps it blank like he does when people are hurting him.

He’s hurting himself, thinking of such things.

So he throws a white sheet over his mind and pretends not to notice the movement of his tumultuous ideas underneath it.

He sweeps and washes and gets under the clean brown furs he doesn’t deserve while refusing to turn towards what he can see out of the corner of his eye.

The knowledge that Cas needs help, badly, and that he knows how to provide that help.

No.

He doesn’t look at it, doesn’t think about it, because that thought is not a desire but a fact, a fact he doesn’t know how to argue with.

He’s afraid of that. He’s afraid of believing his desires are possible, because they never have been before. 

_Whores don’t get homes,_ he thinks as he shuts his eyes that evening. _Whores don’t get to sleep safe by the fire, fed and clean and cared for._

They’re facts as well, just as true as the one he won’t acknowledge, and more concrete in his mind after a lifetime of being kicked around and spat on.

He ignores the fact that he’s sleeping safe by a fire, fed and clean and cared for.

That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It’s temporary. He’ll be back in the snow by tomorrow.

He doesn’t have the courage to think any differently.

Sleep makes him braver, or maybe it’s time, but in the morning when he wakes up the idea he hadn’t wanted to think about is in the forefront of his mind.

Cas needs help. Dean could help him.

He knows how to do chores, knows how to work until he drops, knows how to get on his knees and make the money that Cas so dearly needs.

He could be this inn’s whore.

He could be wanted here.

The thought still feels like something he shouldn’t look straight at, but not because it’s hiding. It’s more like the sun, so beautiful and bright that it hurts to stare at, but inevitable and steady and _there_ all the same.

He feels exposed, under its light, shy like an unbloomed daffodil peeking out nervously from the frost.

Belonging to Cas. Belonging to _Cas._

 _Cas,_ who is kind to him, and feeds him and hasn’t hurt him at all even when he deserved it. _Cas_ , who might smile when Dean gives him the money he’d made with his body, who might say _good job_ or _thank you_ or _this is so helpful, Dean,_ instead of screaming at him that it’s not enough.

That would be so nice, Dean thinks. It would be so nice to whore here where it is warm and clean and the people don’t seem so violent, to make money for Cas who deserves all the nice things silver can buy.

Cas would be nice to him in return. He’d be _nice_ to him, Dean is sure of it. He’d be happy Dean’s around and would touch him gentle again and would let Dean eat before he earned it and wouldn’t be so angry all the time and he’d see, he’d _see_ that Dean worked hard for him and wouldn’t throw him out like John had.

Cas would keep him, if he’s good. Cas would see that Dean can be useful, and would keep him.

 _I could be wanted here,_ Dean thinks again, and he has to hide under his furs from the wave of bursting joy that overwhelms him at the thought.

Tears spring to his eyes, and he feels his heart start to beat so quickly that for a moment he becomes disoriented and thinks that he must be afraid.

He’s not afraid, though. It’s something else causing his heart to rush, his eyes to wet, his muscles to tense and tremble. Something between hope and relief, that rushes through him with an intensity that he’d only ever known through panic. It’s exhilarating, and makes him clutch the blankets he’s buried under so hard that he’s worried he might end up ripping them.

The feeling is so enormous that it threatens to choke him, and he has to think angry thoughts at himself to get his breathing under control.

_You don’t know that you’re wanted. He hasn’t asked you to stay._

_He hasn’t even fucked you yet. You were naked and he was touching you and he still didn’t want you._

_You couldn’t even get more than one man the other night to want you. How can you make money for Cas if you can’t get customers?_

_Useless. Useless slut._

_You’re not helpful. Not good. You’re not, you’re not, you’re not._

He thinks of how John had thrown him out, despite his best efforts. He thinks of all the men who got angry at him even when he tried his best to please them.

_Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re never good enough for anybody. Why would you be good enough for Cas?_

The miserable thoughts burst out of his chest in pulses, and they push back the waves of joy that wrack his thin frame like pain. One moment, then the next, then the next, and eventually his breathing starts to even, his muscles begin to unclench. He drains the happiness out of himself like blood, squeezing it out with thoughts of reality and life.

Eventually the hope releases him from its paralyzing hold, and he feels himself start to think straight again.

He’d gotten carried away, in his head. He doesn’t know if Cas will want to keep him. Doesn’t know, if Cas does want to keep him, what being his whore will be like.

 _Good,_ something inside him whispers. _Good, it will be good._

No.

He doesn’t know that for sure.

He doesn’t know that for sure.

But it’s hard not to get his hopes up. It’s hard, especially when he emerges from his cocoon of warmth at last and finds a world that looks so much like it could be home.

**************

He finds Cas in the barn, petting a large animal Dean can only assume is a cow.

He pauses for a moment as Dean walks in the door, but doesn’t look up, and doesn’t speak.

Dean doesn’t either, and after a moment, Cas goes back to stroking the animal’s nose.

Dean considers them from where he is tucked up against the doorway.

The animal seems calm, and well cared for. It’s not trapped by anything or tied in place, and could easily back away from Cas if it wanted to.

It doesn’t seem to want to. It doesn’t seem afraid of Cas at all.

Cas, for his part, seems as fond of the animal as the animal seems to be of him. He looks sad, looks tired, but seems to take comfort in the animal’s presence, and looks at it with an expression of love so open that it makes something ache in Dean’s chest.

He touches the animal as gently as he had touched Dean the night before.

Dean feels longing open up inside of him like a chasm.

 _I want to belong to you,_ he thinks helplessly. _I want to be yours._

He’s not as useful as a cow, and not as good company, but. But he’s. Well.

He’s _something,_ isn’t he? He can work, he can make money. He’ll do anything Cas wants him to, if he’ll just touch him like that again, if he’ll look at him with a fraction of the care with which he looks at the cow.

 _I’ll be good,_ he thinks desperately. _I’m not as helpful, not as important as a milk cow. But I can be good._

He’ll do anything to deserve the kindness Cas treats him with.

It’s Cas who speaks first, eventually, because Dean is too timid.

“Her name is Luna,” he says quietly, voice low and sweet. “You can pet her too, if you want.”

Dean isn’t sure if he does want that, because the cow is big and a little scary, and because frankly he’s kind of jealous of the attention it’s getting.

Cas clearly cares for his cow, though, and Dean wants Cas to care for him too, so he doesn’t want to upset Cas by not being nice enough to Luna.

Whores are more easily replaced than beloved pets.

So he approaches, warily, slowly, and stops a few feet away. He reaches his hand out nervously, but his hand stops before it reaches the animal, hovering.

The cow is even bigger up close. It’s the same height as him.

What if it bites him? Does it have sharp teeth?

If he gets bitten, he’s less able to work. Cas will be mad at him for provoking Luna and making himself even more useless.

He feels frozen to the spot, knowing Cas wants him to pet the cow, but being afraid it could hurt him.

“Dean,” Cas says, and Dean jumps. He tears his eyes away from the frightening animal and looks over to the other boy.

Cas doesn’t look like he’s angry at Dean for not petting Luna. He doesn’t look like he thinks Dean’s fear is funny either.

He looks kind. Sympathetic. Dean feels himself relax.

“It’s alright,” the boy says. “I know she’s big, but she’s gentle. Look.”

He produces an apple slice from his pocket, and holds it out to the cow.

The cow moves its mouth down to Cas’s hand, and Dean’s breath hitches in fear.

It doesn’t bite Cas, though, or even come close, but instead uses its lips to pick the treat up into its mouth. When it starts chewing, Dean sees that its teeth are flat.

“See?” Cas says. He pats Luna’s neck, and then kisses the side of her face.

“Good girl,” he whispers, and it’s so sweet that it almost makes Dean want to cry.

He inches himself forward, closer to the cow.

Cas loves it. It must be good, if it’s garnered so much care from someone so wonderful.

He reaches out again, and then, after a moment of hesitation, steels himself and strokes one finger down her neck hesitantly.

Luna doesn’t growl or bite or whatever he’d been afraid of. In fact, she doesn’t pay him any mind at all, too focused on her apple.

He does it again.

The fur is soft, but not soft like a cat’s fur. It has short hair, sort of stiff and straw like, but it still feels nice to run his hand against it.

“She’s warm,” he says, which is a stupid thing to say, because of course she is, she’s alive isn’t she?

Cas doesn’t call him stupid.

“She is,” he says, and goes back to petting her nose. “You aren’t, though.”

Dean pauses halfway through his third stroke.

“What?”

Cas doesn’t look up.

“You’re not wearing the coat and boots.”

Dean blinks, uncertain.

He hadn’t even thought of them.

He never would have had the audacity to put those on without express permission.

“It’s alright,” Cas continues. “I’ll carry you back so your feet don’t get cold. You mustn’t go outside without them again, though.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean whispers, relieved that Cas doesn’t seem to be angry at him.

He doesn’t address the comment about carrying him. That must be. Cas must be joking, or something, even though Dean’s pretty sure Cas wouldn’t know a joke if it hit him in the face.

He can’t be serious, though.

“You really don’t have to call me Sir, Dean. I’m just a kid like you.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that either. Somehow Dean doesn’t think Cas will really be happy to hear about the many times a “kid like him” has taken advantage of their power over him just as much as any adult ever had.

They continue to pet the cow in silence for another minute, while Dean tries to figure out how to proposition Cas in a way that is most likely to result in him saying yes.

_Your inn doesn’t have a whore. I’ve been a whore forever. I know how the trade works, I can make you a good amount of money._

_I know I didn’t do so well at tempting people the other night, but I was filthy, and so cold and hungry that I couldn’t think. I could do so much better now. I can show you, tonight, I can prove it to you, I’ll make you money and you will be pleased with me._

_I don’t need much. You don’t have to feed me as much as you have been, I really only need food once a day. If you’d just let me sleep inside, and give me food sometimes, I can work, I can work so hard, I promise it will be worth your while._

He’s talking to himself in his head, running in circles, practicing what he’s going to say, convincing himself that this is going to work, it’s going to _work,_ and he’s not about to shatter the only peace he’s ever known prematurely.

He doesn’t get a chance to speak his offer before Cas throws his world on its head.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Cas says, and Dean freezes.

His hand stops its movements, and drops, and he looks up at the other boy in confusion.

Cas is staring intently at Luna’s nose. He hasn’t stopped petting her this whole time, and doesn’t stop now either.

“What?” Dean says again, having no idea what Cas is on about.

He doesn’t like having no idea what Cas is on about. It makes him feel unsafe.

“I’m sorry.” Cas says again. “I didn’t mean. I. I didn’t mean to break down on you like that.”

He goes quiet again, and Dean stares.

“Break down?” He echoes, baffled.

Something flickers across Cas’s impassive face for the first time, something stressed or frustrated that has Dean taking a step back.

He takes a step forward again in the same moment. He can’t have Cas thinking that he doesn’t like Luna.

“Crying,” Cas says, sounding tense. “Rambling like an idiot. You didn’t need to see that.”

He still isn’t looking at Dean.

Dean, for his part, doesn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t realized that Cas had felt embarrassed. He’s seen John cry and rage and scream a million times, had often dealt with him ranting about stress and money and work while swinging wildly between furious and full of despair.

It was never pleasant, but it was nothing new either.

And it never ended as well for Dean as it had last night.

“It’s…it’s alright,” Dean offers, feeling like the words are inadequate.

They are, clearly, because Cas just huffs. He stops petting the cow, and takes a step away from her. He’s looking anywhere but at Dean.

“It’s not,” he says simply, and Dean just blinks.

Cas sighs, and shuts his eyes.

He looks exhausted, not the way one does after a night of restless sleep, but the way one does after a lifetime of stress and far too much work. 

Dean feels like he’s looking at a mirror. 

If he was brave, he would go over and hug Cas now. He’d liked it last night. He might like it now too.

Dean isn’t brave, and doesn’t hug him. He doesn’t want Cas to lash out at him.

“The truth is,” Cas starts. “I am. Well. Very overwhelmed.”

He opens his eyes again, though he still refuses to look at Dean, like he is telling him something shameful.

“I. My father passed and. Well. It’s been hard to-”

His voice breaks there, with feeling, with stress, and he stops, then starts again, calmer.

“It’s been hard to keep everything going. But.”

And he sighs then, and shakes his head like he is trying to center himself.

“But that’s not your problem,” he states firmly.

He doesn’t say anything else after that, but crosses his arms, and scuffs his boot in the dirt, and Dean’s heart seizes when he realizes this is his chance.

Everything he’s rehearsed in his head seems to fly out of his mind all at once, and he’s left trying to put his thoughts into words on the fly.

“What if,” he breathes, frightened. “What if I wanted it to be my problem.”

Cas blinks at the ground, then finally looks up at him, seemingly confused.

“What do you mean?”

Dean swallows. He takes a step forward, then another step, then another step, until he is directly in front of the other boy.

More nervously than he’d reached out to pet Luna, he reaches out and puts a hand on Cas’s chest.

It feels sort of silly to do, because there’s nothing sensual or tempting about it. Cas is covered in a thick bear-fur coat, and putting his hand on his chest is like putting his hand on a rug. Dean doubts Cas can even feel the pressure of his touch on his chest.

Dean’s estimation of the touch’s effectiveness as a tool of seduction seems to be about right, as Cas just looks down at his hand in confusion.

He has to do better. He has to do better if he wants Cas to keep him.

Thankfully, Cas just seems confused so far, and not angry or irritated, and he isn’t pushing Dean’s hand off his chest or shoving him away.

Dean licks his lips.

_You can do this._

It’s just like getting a customer for the night.

No matter that there is so much more riding on this. So much more, _so much-_

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. The mechanics are the same as what he’s done a million times before.

“I…” he whispers. “I want to belong to you.”

The words are sincere. The brittle smile he tries to force along with them is not.

Cas doesn’t seem taken in by those words. His brow furrows further.

“Belong to me?” He echoes. “What…Dean? What does that mean?”

Dean swallows.

_It means I will work for you. It means I’ll do the chores in the morning and night and during the day, so you can sleep or drink or gamble or whatever else inn owners do. It means I’ll whore myself for you, and I’ll bring any money I make back to you. It means you can fuck me, and I’ll pretend to like it. It means you can do anything with me._

_It means please keep me._

He doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, keeping the stiff smile on his face steady, he trails his hand down Cas’s chest and slips it inside the coat to land on the much thinner tunic Cas is wearing beneath it.

It’s warm, beneath the coat. His chest is warm.

Dean’s heart is going a mile a minute.

This has to work. It just has to.

“It means whatever you want it to mean, Sir.”

Then he tugs the coat open and drops to his knees. He pushes Cas’s tunic up and puts his mouth on his cloth covered crotch.

Cas shoves him away, and Dean is left sprawled in the dirt.

Immediately, he starts crying.

It didn’t work.

_Stupid stupid stupid **stupid slut.**_

“No, Dean!” Cas shouts. He’s yelling, he’s _yelling,_ he hasn’t yelled at Dean before but he is now and Dean hates it. “I don’t want that, Jesus!”

Dean starts crying harder at the harsh words. He hates being shouted at. He hates it. He’d rather be hit.

He wants Cas to go back to talking to him nice and low and quiet. But he doesn’t because Dean is a stupid slut who can’t do anything right and ruins _everything._

“Why would you think I want that?” Cas yells, and then he leaves, runs away like he can’t stand to be near Dean another minute, out of the barn and out of sight, leaving Dean in the dirt like the trash he is.

_Why would you think I want that?_

_Why would you think I want that?_

_Why would you think I want you?_

_Why would you think I want you?_

_Disgusting disgusting disgusting worthless._

He’s fucked everything up.

He curls into a ball on the ground and cries and cries and cries until even Luna walks away from him too.

Nobody wants him. Nobody wants him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys. :( I've talked about it on my tumblr but student teaching has started again and I'm back to being insanely busy.
> 
> Please don't be too mad at Cas. He's 16 and autistic and very overwhelmed :( he reacts badly but he will make things right!! He's a good egg he just freaked out.
> 
> Also- again, I talked about this on my tumblr but for anyone who didn't see. I'm gonna wrap this story up soon as a "part one" of two or possibly three. I feel like I have a good narrative structure going here, with the mini "plot" being Dean ending up permanently staying with Cas. (obviously we are at the low point right now) So part one will be finished pretty soon, but then there will be a part two involving Sam and then maybe a part three, and probably also one shots as they come to me. So pls don't be too devastated when this fic gets marked as complete lol <3 I'm still having a lot of fun in this verse and their story isn't over. But I really didn't plan for this to be a long epic fic or anything, as I've been saying over and over this is self indulgent vibes. Honestly at first I was just gonna write about Dean coming to stay for the night and the rest would be ~~ implied ~~ and I thought it would end up being like 5000 words max lol. So yeah. Wrapping part one up soon, but there will be more to come!
> 
> Please leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed. As always you can come talk to me at my tumblr https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :)


	13. Chapter 13

Cas doesn’t see Dean for hours after that, though not for lack of trying.

He turns around and heads back to the barn about twenty minutes later, after his heart has stopped pounding and his head has stopped spinning from shock. He stomps back cursing his stupidity and rashness, cursing himself for pushing Dean down and making him cry.

The image of his delicate face, looking up at Cas with such open misery, echoes through the crevices of his mind.

He hadn’t even seemed surprised. He hadn’t even seemed surprised that Cas had pushed him. Just devastated and horribly, horribly, resigned. Dean had burst into tears so quickly that Cas knows he must have been ready to be so harshly rejected, must have been bracing himself for the pain.

Cas hates himself for providing it.

Not for the first time, Cas wonders if he really is the unfeeling changeling child the doctor had accused him of being. Cruel and cold and unaffected by the emotional turmoil of others.

How else could he not have noticed how afraid Dean must have been this whole time? How else could he not have seen that Dean still thought Cas would demand sexual favors of him? How else could he shove a young and frightened boy away, shouting at him and leaving him alone to his tears?

He should have stayed. He should have stayed and sorted things out, comforted Dean, no matter how off balance he felt, no matter how his own heartbeat had picked up in alarm and confusion. He should have stayed.

This truth becomes even clearer when Cas reaches the barn and finds Dean gone.

His heart leaps into his throat at the boy’s absence, and Cas feels a cold rush of fear.

_He’s run off. He’s run off he’s run off he’s run off with no shoes and no coat and now he’s going to freeze and it’s your fault._

He pushes his way back out of the barn with every intention of tracking the boy down, running his father’s inn be damned.

But when he exits, he sees what he hadn’t noticed walking in: Footprints in the snow, not made by boots but by bare feet. And they don’t lead into the dark woods or away towards the icy road, but back towards the inn. The tracks don’t lead to the back door he’d run towards, to the kitchen where he had hidden, but around the building towards the front, right up to the main entrance that the boy had come in the first night.

The relief he feels at the realization that Dean is still safe in the inn is enormous.

But when he enters through the main door and comes into the tavern area, Dean is nowhere to be found.

He checks behind the staircase, checks the dark corners Dean had hid in the first night. He checks back in the kitchen again, then in the cellar he hadn’t gotten to show Dean yet, then the stables. He checks his own room, and the outdoor closet, and even the upstairs hallways that lead to the guest’s rooms.

Nowhere is Dean to be found.

He starts to get nervous again, then anxious, then scared.

He serves breakfast as quickly as he can. Dean doesn’t appear in the kitchen during that time, and he looks around the dining room to no avail while he passes out food, frantically enough that people start to look at him oddly.

After that, he goes back to the barn, though there are no new prints in the snow. He comes back to the kitchen upon finding only Luna and the hens.

By the time he finds himself stood staring at Dean’s pile of fireside blankets, Cas feels like he’s going to choke.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, blinking at the furs. _Fuck, Dean, where are you?_

His hands are twitching at his sides. He’s too distressed to stop them.

_Freak,_ Cas thinks. _No wonder you scared Dean away._

Cas makes a noise.

Then another one.

Then another one.

He shuts his eyes.

Then he sits down, curls into a ball, grips his hair so hard it’s painful, and rocks.

The noises don’t stop.

He looks insane.

But there is no one around to see him anyway. He’s scared everyone off.

_Fuck, Dean,_ he thinks, heart aching with fear and guilt. _Where are you?_

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know,_ he can’t do fucking anything right.

Is he gone? Was Cas wrong, had he run off in fear, is he cold and alone in the wild woods somewhere?

But the footprints had come back to the inn. They had, they _had,_ so where could Dean _be?_

_He’s hiding,_ a voice tells him, and it might be true. _He’s hiding from you because he’s afraid of you, he saw what a freak you are, he saw how you’re incapable of human kindness. No one likes the freak, no one likes the freak who yells and rocks and pushes people away instead of holding them close. Everyone’s scared of a freak like that._

Another distressed noise makes its way out of him, louder than the ones that are now constant. He’s scared by Dean disappearing, but he’s glad he’s not here to see this. No way would he want to be around Cas anymore.

If he’s hiding, where could he be? Should Cas try to find him? Or should he just let him be?

Cas used to hide, sometimes, when everything was too much. He knows all the good spots, knows all the dark quiet places one can squeeze into, to find grounding pressure and blessed silence.

He never wanted to be found, when he used to hide. He hated it when his father would find him and make him come out. That’s why he knows absolutely every place there is to hide in this house, because every time his father found him he’d have to find a new hiding spot the next time to avoid being dragged out of the places that his father knew to check.

He tried not to hide so much, especially as he got older and it got weirder. He knew his father didn’t like it when he hid. He looked at him like he was strange. He would ask him so many questions when he found him, over and over, and Cas didn’t want to talk he _couldn’t_ talk he couldn’t talk especially when he went to hide especially when he got dragged out into the bright light and noise. His father would make him talk though, would insist he talk even more than he usually did, though he didn’t want to and didn’t have answers about why he hid that were anything his father wanted to hear.

And he would touch him, would hug him when he got pulled out of hiding, and sometimes being hugged was ok but usually he didn’t like it but oh _god_ after he ran and hid and got caught, being touched made him feel like he was on fire. It make him want to tear his skin off, made him shriek like an animal and push and push and push like he pushed Dean, but his father would’t let him go he wouldn’t let him _go_ and he would just hold him and say things like “it’s ok” and “it will be alright” and “I know, I know,” even though he didn’t know and it wasn’t alright and it wasn’t ok at all.

He used to think hiding was so bad that his father was punishing him when he found him, by dragging him out and making him talk and making him touch even more than the uncomfortable world usually demanded of him.

It was years, years until he understood that his father thought he was comforting him. That most people find it comforting to be held and to talk about what’s wrong. That most people want to be found when they hide, if they hide at all.

He had to learn that he’s wrong, that he’s built all wrong and broken, before he understood that his father wasn’t punishing him for being bad and hiding.

He never told his father he didn’t like to be found, that he didn’t like to be hugged, that he didn’t like to be asked over and over and over what’s wrong what’s wrong, held tighter and tighter until he discovered that ripping some words out of his throat like hooks were the only thing that would make the touch lessen.

He never found a way to tell him just how much of a freak he is.

And how he’s dead, he’s dead, and Cas will never be able to tell him.

He’ll never know just how screwed up Cas is, never again have to see him rocking back and forth like an animal like he is right now.

It’s good. It’s a good thing, right? It’s not good that he’s dead, but it’s good that he never had to know how wrong Cas is, it’s good that he doesn’t have to deal with having Cas for a son.

It’s good, right?

It doesn’t feel good.

Cas doesn’t even know what he’s upset about anymore.

_Everyone leaves me. Everyone leaves. No one can stand to be around you, even your father died to get away._

That’s not true. That’s not fair.

It’s not fair.

He still thinks it, sometimes, still wonders in the lonely and long hours of the dark morning. 

He wonders if up in heaven, his father is relieved to be away from Cas.

There are tears streaming down his face now. He doesn’t know who they’re for.

The last time he hid was when he woke up four months ago and realized his father was dead.

He hid behind the ale barrels in the cellar for hours, hours and hours and hours, longer than he’d ever been able to before.

Eventually he’d realized that he’d have to come out on his own, because there was no one around anymore to find him and drag him back out.

That had been harder than being pulled out before he was ready.

_I can’t do this, Dad,_ he thinks. _I can’t do this alone anymore._

But he has no choice. He has no choice because his father is dead and he scares everyone else away, even Dean, even Dean who he’d liked so much.

Now Dean is hiding from him or gone or never existed at all and he doesn’t know what to think, other than that maybe he’s gone so crazy that he made someone who liked him and could help him up in his head. And if that’s true, Cas might as well walk into the woods and let the cold consume him, because there’s no way anymore for him to stay clinging to life, with these hands that are broken and torn.

*******************

When he comes back to himself, it’s been a long time, which is bad, because he still doesn’t know where Dean is.

He’s been on the floor for a long time. Just staring, not rocking, or making noises. Just staring at the fire and not processing anything.

His mind comes back to him slowly, in pieces, and it’s a while before the part of his brain that notices he’s calming down blinks to life and lets him know he can stand.

When it does, he goes over to the sink. It’s empty of all but water, because Cas hadn’t bothered collecting people’s breakfast dishes.

More work for his later self, but Cas finds it hard to even try to care.

He washes his face of the sticky dried tears and presses a cold cloth to his eyes to help the redness go down.

After a few minutes, he doesn’t know if he looks any better, but he’s wasted too much time already being a freak.

There is nowhere else to look. He could start searching the hiding places, but that would take hours, and what if Dean left again after coming back to the inn? Cas can’t waste that time if Dean is outside getting hypothermia.

There’s one option that could speed up the search process, an option that makes Cas sick to his stomach to think about. It’s the option he knew he was being cornered by as time went on and places Dean could be dwindled, the option he had felt creeping up on him that had probably had a lot to do with his meltdown.

He’s going to have to talk to people.

He’s going to have to talk to people, without a script, without the memorized words of _how can I help you,_ and _enjoy your food_. 

He’s going to have to talk to people without scaring them away. A lot of people, probably. In a loud, noisy area in front of many others.

Cas shuts his eyes, and puts his head in his hands.

_Maybe it won’t be so bad_ , Cas thinks. _Maybe the first person you talk to will know where Dean is._

If only his luck was so grand.

_I hate talking to people,_ he thinks, and he feels his hands start to tremble as he drops them back down to his sides.

He hates talking to people. He really does. People. Strangers. He hates talking to strangers, and almost everyone is a stranger, because his father is dead and no one likes him so he has no friends.

Involuntarily, he thinks of Dean.

Dean is nice. He still doesn’t talk so much, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, and that in itself makes the words come easier.

Is Dean his friend?

Cas shakes his head.

_Not after this morning,_ he thinks.

Maybe he could have been. But not anymore.

Another wave of self hatred washes over him, and Cas clenches his fists as he waits for it to pass.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he likes Cas, if he liked Cas, if Cas could have had a friend if he hadn’t fucked everything up once again.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Dean needs help, so Cas needs to find him.

He walks out of the kitchen without another thought, keeping his mind blank to keep from talking himself out of what he’s about to do.

He moves towards the first person he sees, a middle aged woman sitting at the counter, still finishing up her porridge.

She’s talking to another woman as he approaches, but they both fall silent as he appears next to them.

They look at him expectantly.

Cas feels his throat close up.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck._

_Excuse me, Ma’am._

_Excuse me, Ma’am. Where is-_

_Excuse me, Ma’am. Have you seen Dean._

_Have you seen a boy._

_Have you seen a young boy._

_Have you seen a young boy with bruises who looks scared all the time._

_Have you seen a young boy with freckles._

_Can you tell me where Dean is._

_Have you seen a young boy with freckles. Excuse me Ma’am._

_Ma’am. Where is Dean._

_Excuse me Ma’am. Have you seen a young boy with freckles and green eyes._

_Excuse me Ma’am. Have you seen a young boy with freckles and green eyes._

_Excuse me Ma’am. Have you seen a young boy with freckles and green eyes._

Cas opens his mouth.

_Excuse me Ma’am. Have you seen a young boy with freckles and green eyes._

_Excuse me Ma’am._

_Excuse me Ma’am._

**_Excuse me Ma’am._ **

Nothing comes out.

The woman is staring at him. Her friend is staring at him too. Their expressions have gone from expectant to confused. They’ll get annoyed soon. Cas knows from experience.

_Excuse me Ma’am._

_Excuse me Ma’am._

“Can I help you?” The woman says.

Is she being genuine? Is she being sarcastic, because Cas is so strange? Is she angry?

Cas can’t _tell,_ he can’t fucking _tell._

_Excuse me Ma’am._

_Excuse me Ma’am._

Cas turns around and walks back into the kitchen without saying a word.

He collapses against the wall as soon as the door is shut.

Heart pounding a mile a minute, he thinks he is going to cry, but he doesn’t, because as he finds out, his eyes are all out of tears.

Hands come up to grip his hair again and he tugs, he _tugs_ like he is trying to rip it out, and it _hurts._

_Freak._

“Freak,” he whispers to himself, and it makes him even angrier, that he can talk now, alone, to insult himself, but not to say the words he needs to to find Dean.

Dean.

He shouldn’t have pushed him away.

If he hadn’t pushed him away and shouted. Dean would be here now. He would be here, next to him.

It would be easier to talk if Dean was here.

Why is it so much easier to talk when Dean is here?

_Why_ is it so much easier to talk when Dean is here?

Cas drops his hands to his lap and stares down at them.

He swallows.

Is it easier to talk when Dean is here?

He hasn’t thought about it much.

All he knows is that he hasn’t felt like he does right now, like he’s trying to yank unmoving words from his throat, since Dean arrived.

_But is that because it’s easier to talk around Dean? Or is it because Dean doesn’t make you talk when the words aren’t coming?_

Cas pulls his knees in, and rests his head on them.

The truth is, if he’s brave enough to admit it, is that he doesn’t talk much around Dean either.

He talks. More than he does around strangers. More comfortably than he did around his father, even.

But he’s still quiet.

He still doesn’t speak much.

Why does it still feel like Dean understands all the things he wants to tell him?

Why is it so easy to communicate with Dean, even when he isn’t talking?

The answer comes from his heart.

_Because he listens to you even when you aren’t speaking._

He feels something burst open within him at the thought.

He speaks sometimes, with Dean. But he hasn’t been speaking all the time, either. He just points, sometimes, or gestures. He hands things to Dean, and takes them, shows him how to do something without speaking and Dean just takes it all in anyway.

_Use your words, Castiel._

That’s what his father would say, when he tried that with him.

He tried to use his words. Sometimes he was successful, sort of. But it made him tired. It took so much energy, to talk when he didn’t feel like the words were coming. It made it harder to talk at other points, in the evening, over breakfast, made it harder to talk when he did feel like he had something to say.

Dean doesn’t make him talk when he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t make him try again and again to make his words make sense, after he’s forced them out.

_You’re not scaring me, Sir._

The memory of Dean’s words ring in his brain.

Cas had been a mess, last night. He’d stuttered and cried and collapsed and not made any sense, verbally. And Dean had understood anyway, had understood that Cas needed help, had taken the broom and sent Cas to bed without Cas having to ask.

He’d even hugged Cas, and it hadn’t felt like fire, because when Cas moved away he had let go of him.

_You’re not scaring me, Sir._

He never means to scare anyone. He’s just trying to show what he thinks and feels, in a language that isn’t English. But no one ever understands him, so they get freaked out.

He freaks everyone out.

Except Dean.

_You’re not scaring me, Sir._

Cas swallows, heart feeling swelled with emotion.

_Can you hear me, Dean?_

Dean can hear him. Dean can hear him, even when he doesn’t talk.

Cas can’t talk right now. He just can’t. It doesn’t matter how important it is, doesn’t matter how much he panics. Those things just make it more impossible, like a wall that is just growing higher.

Dean wouldn’t make him talk. He wouldn’t try to make him talk if he couldn’t.

Dean would still understand.

There are ways to communicate without speaking. There are, there _are,_ Dean can hear him.

Cas tries to steady himself, steady his mind, push away the voice berating him for not being normal.

He needs to find Dean. He needs to find Dean. This is too important to allow himself to sink into self hatred, too important a thing to not manage to communicate at all because he was focused on doing it “right.”

_How would I communicate to someone who can hear me that I need to find Dean?_

_How would I communicate to Dean that I need to find Dean?_

Would he gesture? Point? Mime something out?

No.

No, none of those things are specific enough to work.

Not for the first time, he wishes he knew how to read and write.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, so what else can he do?

Well.

_What do I need other people to know so they understand what I need?_

They need to know what Dean looks like, and they need to know that Cas can’t find him.

_Drawing._

It comes to him at once, like it had been there all along.

Cas thinks maybe it had been, but he’d been too scared of looking at it in case it made him a freak.

But he can’t care about that right now. Something more important is at stake.

He stands, finally, and fetches a piece of parchment from the cabinet, as well a piece of charcoal he can scribble with.

His drawing is not very good, and it lacks the colors that Cas thinks would make Dean more recognizable. He adds freckles, and contemplates if that’s enough to let people know who he’s looking for.

He bites his lip, and hesitates.

After a moment, he gives in, though he doesn’t like it, and adds the bruises on Dean’s face that he knows are unmistakable.

When he puts the charcoal down, he has a picture of Dean.

_This has to work,_ Cas thinks. _It just has to._

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it doesn’t.

When he leaves the kitchen again, he feels his face heat up from the embarrassment of what he’s about to do. The women he’d previously approached spot him immediately, and they stare at him with expressions Cas doesn’t understand.

His father wouldn’t like him using the drawing. His father would try to make him speak, and then do it himself if Cas couldn’t force the words out.

His father isn’t here.

His father is dead, but Dean isn’t, and Cas needs to find him.

And the women think he’s a freak already anyway. He isn’t going to make them any more uncomfortable than he already had.

He approaches the women again. They stare at him as he comes.

Cas looks away from them, unable to handle their eyes.

Awkwardly, he shoves the drawing towards them, making it clear that he wants them to look at it.

It takes them a moment to respond. Eventually, the older one says, “Oh! That’s that skinny boy who’s been around.”

Cas nods.

“I saw him come in a few hours ago,” says the other. “He didn’t look very happy. Are you looking for him?”

Cas nods again, and swallows.

Neither of them are laughing in his face, or screaming and running from him in fear.

The knot in his stomach starts to lessen.

“Mmhm,” he manages to mumble.

“Oh dear,” says the older. “I think he left already, with that man. You know, the one with the mutton chops? I assumed the boy belonged to him. Is that not the case?”

Cas does look at them now, as his heart jumps into his throat.

The man with the mutton chops. That’s the one who’d taken Dean up on his offer (his _body)_ that first night.

Cas had seen him dragging his bags out in the morning, but had paid him no mind, too busy looking for Dean.

_I think he left already, with that man._

No. No, no, no, no, _no._

Why would Dean leave with _him,_ of all people?

Blood rushing to his head, Cas takes a step back, then another step, and then he turns around and bolts away from the women and towards the front door.

_No, no no no no no no_ **_no._ **

He’s gone, he’s gone, he _left,_ he left with a man who is big and rough and has no problem shoving his cock down the throat of a shivering starving child.

Cas remembers how little coin he’d given Dean, as he shoves his way out the door, into the snow.

He sees no one around.

No.

_No._

Why would Dean leave with that man? Had Cas really scared him so badly, that he thought that angry drunk would be safer?

He runs to the stables, desperately, in distress and panic, hoping hoping hoping against hope-

He turns the corner, and sees Dean, huddled next to a bag laden horse, looking small and cold and tired. The man is nowhere to be found.

Relief punches the air out of him like a scream.

“ _Dean,”_ he says wretchedly, and Dean’s head snaps up. His eyes are big and green like grass.

He’s not wearing the tunic and leggings he’d been wearing this morning, but has changed back into the threadbare, bloodied outfit he’d had on when he’d arrived.

No coat or shoes either, of course.

“Dean,” he says again, words still feeling sluggish and thick in his gut.

The boy blinks back at him. He has a new bruise along his jawline that hadn’t been there that morning, and his right cheek is too red, like he’d been slapped.

Cas wants to cry with despair.

_Why, Dean? Am I really worse than him?_

The words don’t come. The words don’t come, and they just stand there looking at each other, with Cas breathing heavily from how fast he had run, until finally Dean spots the drawing Cas still has clutched in his hand.

He looks at it, then looks away, then looks at it again.

He hugs his middle before he speaks, like he’s unconsciously preparing to get hit if Cas doesn’t like what he says.

“Is…is that me?” he whispers tentatively.

It takes Cas a moment to rip his eyes away from the new injuries Dean’s been given in the few hours he’s been missing. When he does, he blinks down at the parchment in surprise. He’d forgotten he was holding it.

He can’t speak, still, can barely think, so he just nods once, and holds the parchment out for Dean to take, feeling like he’s handing him his heart to be considered. 

It’s all he has to offer.

Dean approaches him nervously, like he thinks Cas is going to shout at him again. Cas stays very still, like he did when gaining the chickens’s trust.

Dean takes the parchment from his hand slowly, as if afraid Cas is going to snatch his hand back at the last second. 

Their fingers brush, and Cas savors the touch. Dean doesn’t seem to notice.

Cas is braced for Dean to skitter away once he has the drawing, to skitter backwards like he wants nothing more than to get out of Cas’s striking range.

But when Dean takes the parchment, he stays put. He stays put, and Cas clutches that fact to his chest like hope.

Dean studies the drawing for a long time, in front of him. Cas waits for his verdict like it matters, like his opinion on the sketch is the difference between Dean staying and leaving.

When Dean speaks, though, he doesn’t say anything about the drawing’s quality or whether he likes it or not.

“I’m smiling,” Dean says instead, sounding amazed. It takes Cas a confused moment of looking at Dean’s unsmiling mouth to understand that he’s talking about the drawing.

_Yes,_ Cas says in his head. _Of course you are._

He hadn’t even thought about drawing him any other way. Of course he was smiling. In Cas’s head, Dean would be smiling forever.

“Dean,” Cas says for the third time, and then finally manages to push his voice forward. “Dean, why are you leaving with him?”

He’s heartbroken. His voice doesn’t always reflect what he feels, because he’s strange, but he’s heartbroken. He hopes Dean can tell. Not to make him feel bad, but to maybe, maybe, make him realize how bad Cas feels about yelling at him earlier.

Maybe, maybe he will be forgiven, and Dean will stay.

Dean lowers the parchment slowly after Cas speaks, until his hand, with the drawing in it, is hanging limp by his side.

He’s not looking at Cas when he speaks.

“He’s agreed to take me to the next town,” he says simply, as if this is supposed to be enough for Cas to walk away.

It isn’t.

“He’s going to hurt you.”

Dean must know this. He must know.

Cas tells him anyway, just in case.

But Dean doesn’t react like he’s learned of some new danger.

He just shrugs, resigned.

“It’s not like he’s going to keep me. I was hoping he might want to, but. Well. No one wants another mouth to feed.”

Cas looks back at Dean, not understanding, not _understanding_ how he could have messed up so badly.

“You’ll be on your own?”

Dean nods.

Miserable, useless warnings fall out of his mouth like raindrops.

He’s begging, really. He’s begging.

“Dean, what will you do? Where will you go? It’s winter, Dean, there’s no work. There won’t be work till spring.”

“There’s always work, of the kind I’m used to.”

Cas steps back as if slapped.

Dean won’t look him in the eye.

Terror coalesces in his stomach like honey.

The thought of Dean, lovely kind hardworking Dean, left out in the cold streets of some ugly town. On his knees in the snow, being used, being hit, being pushed around for so little compensation. Of him sleeping on the streets, vulnerable to weather and robbers and rapists. Of him going hungry, of him shivering, of him in pain, in pain, and in constant fear of receiving more.

His heart starts to break apart in his chest like it is being stomped on.

_I know I messed up, Dean, but please. Please, let me make it up to you. Please don’t leave. I know I’m all broken, I know I scared you, but I’m not as bad as that, I promise._

_I promise._

His eyes start to sting.

“Please don’t go, Dean,” he whispers.

Dean still isn’t looking at him, but he tenses.

Cas wonders if he’s afraid now that Cas won’t let him leave. Like he’s going to grab him and keep him here against his will.

Fuck.

He ruins everything he touches.

“You can go if you want,” he adds desperately, not wanting to scare Dean off even more than he already has. “I won’t force you to stay. You can always go, you can always leave. But please. Please just think about it.”

The words are coming now, are coming unstuck, because they’re for Dean, they’re for _Dean, please Dean you showed me you can hear me, please please hear me now._

“I know it’s not much. I can’t pay you. I can’t. I can’t provide you with much besides an unfair amount of work, little coin and simple food. And I know- I know-” Cas shudders.

“I know what I am. I know I’m built all wrong, that I’m hard to be around, that I scare people, that I scared you too. But I’m not. I. You don’t have to be scared of me, Dean, I swear it. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Dean looks so alone, standing with his bare feet in his skimpy tunic, eyes wet and red and shoulders curled in.

Cas wants to tuck him into his chest where no one can ever, ever hurt him again.

“There will always been food for you here. There will always be a warm place to sleep. I’d never beat you, or whore you out, or, or send you out in the snow without proper clothing. I wouldn’t, not ever. Please. I can’t offer much, and I’m not much either. But please give me a chance to show you I can give you something better than what’s out there waiting for you alone. This could be your home, Dean. It’s small, and full of work, but it could be yours, as much as it is mine.”

He drops his hands when he’s finished speaking, and only then notices that they’d been extended in front of him, pleading, pleading with Dean to stay.

He has nothing else to say, because he has nothing else to offer.

He’s shown all his cards to Dean, and can only hope, now, that they will be enough.

Dean, for his part, has curled even farther into himself than he had been before his speech. He’s pulled the drawing Cas had handed him close to his chest, but is staring down at it, head ducked and shoulders tight.

Cas would have put more effort into it if he’d known it was going to mean so much to him.

When Dean speaks, his voice is barely there.

“I’ve never seen myself smile, before,” he whispers.

Cas blinks, unsure what to say.

“Can I keep this?” Dean asks, and Cas answers, “Of course.”

But his heart starts to sink, because that sounds like goodbye.

Dean inches closer, shuffling forward, slow and slow and steady, until he’s so close that Cas can feel his breath on his neck.

For a second Cas is afraid that he’s done something wrong, and they are going to have a repeat performance of what had happened this morning.

But Dean doesn’t sink down to his knees.

Instead, he tucks his head into Cas’s neck, resting his head on his shoulder.

The rest of his body stays still, arms limp by his sides.

Uncertain of what he is supposed to do, they stand there in that awkward position for a few moments, before Cas, hazarding a guess, lifts his arms to circle the other boy.

He pulls Dean tighter against his chest, and Dean melts.

Cas feels the satisfaction of having made the right decision, of having gentled Dean into relaxing, burst brightly inside of him.

Tentatively, Dean lifts his arms to clutch at Cas’s back, and Cas finds that right now, he doesn’t mind the touch.

“Do you….like me?”

The childish question falls from Dean’s lips without warning, and something about the earnest vulnerability makes Cas hold Dean a little more firmly.

“Of course I do, Dean.”

“Most people don’t.”

Cas opens his mouth to argue, to say that that isn’t true.

But he thinks of the bruises on Dean’s body, of how the other patrons had looked at him, of how Dean’s loyalty has made him start to suspect that he might have been thrown out instead of having run away.

Cas swallows his words. He kisses the top of Dean’s head.

“Well. Most people don’t like me either.”

“I do.”

The words hit Cas harder than he would have expected them to, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying.

“I know I’m just a slut and it doesn’t matter. But I do. I do like you.”

Cas shakes his head.

“You’re not any kind of slut, Dean, and it does matter. It matters to me more than I can say.”

Dean doesn’t react, and Cas thinks he probably doesn’t believe him.

But no matter. The longer Dean stays in Cas’s arms, the more Cas believes that he might stick around long enough for Cas to show him the truth.

“Dean?” He asks.

“Mmhm?”

“Does this…does this mean you’re staying?”

Dean shifts against him, and sighs like he’s feeling safe for the first time in his life.

“Cas,” he says, and a bubble of joy appears in Cas’s weary heart at hearing his name for the first time in Dean’s pretty voice.

It sounds like bells, Cas thinks.

“Cas, if you want me, if you really want me, I’ll stay until the end of the world.”

The joyful bubble expands and expands and expands until it pops out of his chest and into the stables and covers both of them in happiness like daisies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell how young they are in the last conversation? Just babies that want a home and a family!!!!
> 
> So that's it for Wander Home part 1!!! I probably won't start part 2 right away because i'm super busy but I do plan on writing some short easy to read and write oneshots in between now and the start of part 2 :))) So please subscribe to the series to not miss any oneshots! I hope you enjoyed this mini fic and stick around for the next parts. I def want to see more of Dean and Cas be happy and cute together :)
> 
> Also please check out this amazing fanwork by iinstanttrashcollection of Dean eating the stew by the fire in chapter 2!!! :D!!!!
> 
> https://iinstanttrashcollection.tumblr.com/image/643066543611248640
> 
> As always you can come talk to me at https://ao3gingerswag.tumblr.com/ :)))


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